The Bad Queen
by Poey
Summary: Young Marie Antoinette is only fourteen when she is forced to leave her family and friends in Austria to marry the dauphin of France. Once she arrives in the country, she is thrown into a world of wild fashions, lavish parties, and forbidden romance. Follow the iconic queen through her young life that leads to her tragic downfall.
1. Rule Number 1

**The Bad Queen**

**PART I: Rules for the Dauphine (1768)**

_Rule Number 1: Marry Well_

The empress, my mother, studied me as if I were an unusual creature she's thought of acquiring for the palace menagerie. I shivered under her critical gaze. It was like being bathed in snow.

"Still rather small, but I suppose she'll grow. Her sisters did," my mother said half to herself. She caught my eye. "No bosom yet, Antonia?"

I shook my head and stared down at my naked toes, pale as slugs. "No, Mama."

Swathed in widow's black, the empress frowned at me as if my flat chest were my own fault. "She's no beauty, certainly," she said, speaking to my governess, Countess Brandeis. "But pretty enough, I think, to marry the dauphin of France." She signaled me to turn around, which I did, slowly. "My dear countess, something must be done about her hair!" my mother declared. "The hairline is terrible—just look at it! And her teeth as well. The French foreign minister has already complained that the child's teeth are crooked. King Louis has made it quite clear that everything about my daughter must be perfect before he will agree to her marriage to his grandson."

Brandeis inclined her head. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"One more thing, Antonia," said my mother sharply. "You must learn to speak French—beautifully. And this too: from now on you are no longer Antonia. You are Antoine." She dismissed us with a wave and turned her attention to the pile of official papers on her desk.

_Antoine? _Even my name must change? I gasped and groped for an answer, but no answer came, just one dry sob. The countess rushed me out of the empress's chambers before I burst into tears. That would have been unacceptable. Mama didn't allow her daughters to cry.

I've thought of this moment many times. And I think of it again, no longer attempting to hold back my tears after all that has happened to me since then.

**-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

My mother was known to all the world as Maria Theresa, Holy Roman Empress, archduchess of Austria, queen of Hungary and Bohemia, daughter of the Hapsburg family that had ruled most of Europe for centuries. Mama believed the best way to further the goals of her huge empire was not through conquest but through marriage. I'd heard her often say: _Let other nations wage war—fortunate Austria marries well. _She used us, her children, to form alliances.

There were quite a lot of us to be married well. My mother had given birth to sixteen children—I was the fifteenth—and in 1768, the year in which this story begins, ten of us were still living. Three of my four brothers had been paired with suitable brides. The eldest, Joseph, emperor and co-ruler with our mother since Papa's death, was twenty-seven and had already been married and widowed twice. Both of his wives had been chosen by our mother. Joseph still mourned the first, Isabella of Parma, with whom he had been deeply in love, but not the second, a fat and pimply Bavarian princess whom he detested from the very beginning. I was curious to see who Mama would make him marry well for a third time.

Next in line for throne, Archduke Leopold was married to the daughter of the king of Spain. Then came my brother Ferdinand, thirteen, a year older than I, betrothed since he was just nine to an Italian heiress. No doubt he would soon marry her. The youngest archduke, chubby little Maximilian—we called him Fat Max—was not on Mama's list for a wife. He was supposed to become a priest and someday an archbishop.

Of my five older sisters, Maria Anna was crippled and would never have a husband, and dear Maria Elisabeth retired to a convent after smallpox destroyed her beauty. (All archduchesses had been given the first name Maria—an old family tradition.) My other sisters had been found husbands of high enough ranks.

Maria Christina, called Mimi, was my mother's great favorite, and somehow she had been allowed to marry the man she adored, Prince Albert of Saxony. Lucky Mimi, one of the most selfish girls who ever lived!

Maria Amalia was madly in love with Prince Charles of Zweibrücken, but Mama opposed the match—he wasn't rich enough or important enough—and made Amalia promise to marry the duke of Parma. Amalia didn't like him at all, and she was furious with Mama.

"Mimi got to marry the man she loved, even though he has neither wealth or position," Amalia stormed, "and Mama gave her a huge dowry to make up for it. So why can't I marry Charles?"

Silly question! We all knew she had no choice. Only Mimi could talk Mama into giving her whatever she wanted. Maria Carolina, the sister I loved best, had to marry King Ferdinand of Naples. This was the final chapter of a very sad story: two of our older sisters, first Maria Johanna and then Maria Josepha, had each in turn been betrothed to King Ferdinand. First Johanna and the Josepha had died of smallpox just before a wedding could take place. Ferdinand ended up with the next in line, Maria Carolina. He may have been satisfied with the change, but Carolina hadn't been.

"I hear he is an utter dolt!" Carolina had wailed as her trunks were being packed for the journey to Naples. She'd paced restlessly from room to room, wringing her pretty white hands. "And ugly as well. I can only hope he doesn't stink!"

It didn't matter if he stank. We had been brought up to do exactly what we were told, and Mama had a thousand rules. "You are born to obey, and you must learn to do so." (This rule didn't apply to Mimi, of course.)

Though she was three years older than I, we had grown up together. We had also gotten into mischief together, breaking too many of Mama's ruled (such as talking after nightly prayers and not paying attention to our studies), and our mother had decided we had to be separated. In April, when the time came for her to leave for Naples, Carolina cried and cried and even jumped out of her carriage at the last minute to embrace me tearfully one more time. I missed her terribly.

That left me, the youngest daughter, just twelve years old. I knew my mother had been searching for the best possible husband for me—best for _her_ purposes; _my _wishes didn't count. Now she thought she had found him: the dauphin of France. The Austrian Hapsburgs would be united with the French Bourbons. But she also thought I didn't quite measure up.

**-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

After my mother's cold assessment, Brandeis led me, sobbing, through gloomy corridors back to my apartments on the vast Hofburg Palace in Vienna. She murmured soothing words as she helped me dress—I had appeared in only a thin shrift for Mama's inspection—and announced that we would simply enjoy ourselves for the rest of the day.

"Plenty of time tomorrow for your lessons, my darling Antonia," the countess said and kissed me on my forehead. She hadn't yet begun to call me Antoine, and I was glad.

Her plan was fine with me. Neither Brandeis nor I shared much enthusiasm for my lessons. I disliked reading—I read poorly—and avoided it as much as I could. Brandeis saw no reason to force me. She agreed that my hand writing was nearly illegible—I left a trail of scattered inkblots—and allowed me to avoid the practicing that as well. My previous governess had also given up on the struggle, helpfully tracing out the letters with a pencil so I had only to follow her tracings with pen and ink. When my mother discovered the trick, the lady was dismissed. Brandeis didn't resort to deception, but neither did she do much to correct my messy handwriting.

"You'll have scant use or such things," said my governess now. She shuffled a deck of cards and dealt a hand onto the game table. "You dance beautifully—who can forget your delightful performance in the ballet to celebrate your brother Joseph's wedding? Your needle work is exquisite. And your music tutor says you show talent for the harp. What more will you need to know? A member of the court will read everything to you while you stitch your designs, and a secretary will write all your letters for you. You don't even have to think about it. You'll have only to be charming and enjoy yourself, when you become queen of France."

"Queen of France?" I exclaimed, a little surprised. I hadn't thought much beyond marrying the dauphin, whoever he was. "Am I truly to be the queen of France, Brandeis?"

"You will someday, if everything goes according to plan. The young man your mother has chosen you to marry is next in line for the throne. The future wife of the dauphin will be the dauphine, and when old King Louis the Fifteenth dies and his grandson the dauphin becomes king, you, my sweet Antonia, will become his queen." She smiled and sighed. "Everyone knows that Versailles is the most elegant court in all of Europe, and you shall be its shining glory!"

_Queen! _The idea thrilled me. My brothers and sisters had been matched with royalty form sever other countries in Europe, but France was the most important—I understood that much—and that made _me _important, more important than my snobbish sister Mimi! Being married to the prince of Saxony wasn't much to brag about, compared to being queen of France. I pranced around my apartments with my nose in the air, as though I already wore the crown. Countess Brandeis swept her new sovereign a curtsy so deep that _her _nose almost touched the floor. I laughed and twirled and clapped my hands.

Then I remembered my mother's pronouncement: _everything must be perfect. _"Oh, dear Brandeis, what about my hair?" I cried. "And my teeth? Mama says they're not pleasing to the French king. And you're supposed to call me Antoine."

"I imagine a friseur will be sent to dress your hair," said Brandeis with a careless shrug, "though it looks fine enough to me—a mass of red-gold curls, what could be prettier? And I've heard crooked teeth can be fixed as well as unruly locks. Meanwhile, I suggest you simple put all this out of your mind." She picked up her cards and arranged them. "Now, shall I draw first, or shall you?"

I did as my governess suggested and succeeded in winning a few _pfennig _from her. The next day we bundled ourselves in furs and rode through Vienna in a sleigh shaped like a swan drawn by horses with bells jingling on their harnesses. We returned to my apartments in the Hofburg to sip hot chocolate and forget the unpleasant business of lessons and other worrisome matters. Brandeis neglected to call me Antoine. I was still her dear Antonia—until one day when all our pleasant enjoyment came to an end.

**A/N: ****Thanks for reading! Just wanted to clear something up: _There will be no explicit, adult themes in The Bad Queen. _Many characters are not of consenting age, and although the culture in ****1800s ****Versailles permitted such acts, the laws in our culture today do not permit them to be written down. Thanks for your understanding and cooperation.**


	2. Rule Number 2

_Rule Number 2: You Must Become Fluent In French_

I awoke on a cold winter morning at the beginning of 1769 to discover not my beloved Brandeis but a woman I scarcely knew sitting in the governess's chair near the porcelain stove. Her name was Countess Lerchenfeld, and she had once served as mistress of the robes for my older sisters.

"I have come to take charge of your education, Madame Antoine," she informed me. She had a high-arched nose and a wrinkled neck, and she did not disturb her sharp features by smiling. Brandeis always smiled.

"Brandeis does that," I told the woman airily.

"No longer," said Countess Lerchenfeld. "I have drawn up a schedule of your day so that you may know at every hour exactly what is expected of you."

She passed me a large sheet of vellum with writing. I puzzled over it for a moment or two before passing it back. "I want to see Brandeis," I said sullenly.

_"Ce nést pas possible, Madame Antoine." _Suddenly this strange woman was speaking French. "It is not possible. Countess Brandeis is no longer here," she continued, still in French.

I gaped at her. I understood her—French was the language of the court, and in fact my dear papa had always spoken French to us. He was from Lorraine, which I knew was somewhere in France, and he'd never really learned to speak German. I think he didn't want to speak it, even though he was emperor. But my sisters and I, and our brothers too, usually spoke German among ourselves. Brandeis spoke German sprinkled with French, or sometimes French sprinkled with German.

"Why are you speaking French to me?" I asked, frankly curious.

"Because, Madame Antoine, it is your mother's wish. From now on you and I will speak only French. You must become fluent in the language if you are to marry the dauphin of France." Impatiently she waved the sheet with the schedule on it. "You have already fallen behind. As soon as you are dressed and we have attended Mass in the chapel, and after you have eaten your breakfast, we shall begin our first lesson."

I felt tears well up in my eyes and spill down my cheeks.

"I want to see Countess Brandeis," I said thickly in German. The abominable Lerchenfeld pretended that I had not spoken. I tried again, this time in French. Lerchenfeld winced, as though she'd smelled something spoiled. She carefully gave me a long explanation, all in French, as to why I could not see her. I caught the gist of it. The answer was _non_.

**-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

My life changed completely. Brandeis, I discovered, had been dismissed because she hadn't taught me to read and write as well as Mama wanted. I grieved for her every day. I detested Countess Lerchenfeld, who was determined to cure me of all my faults and who punished me when I didn't study hard as she insisted I must. Knowing how much I loved music and dancing and needlework, she did not allow me to play harp, or dance, or embroider, or do any of the things I really liked until my lessons were completed to her satisfaction. There were no card games or sleigh rides, no cozy cups of hot chocolate. How could I possibly be fond of such a person?

Privately I called her Madame Sauerkraut. It suited her perfectly.

I questioned her relentlessly, searching for little nuggets of information about my future. I learned, for instance, that the dauphin's name was Louis-Auguste, that he was a year older than I, and that he was next in line for the throne because his father was dead and his two older brothers had died young.

"When am I supposed to marry him?" I asked.

"No date has been decided upon. Such matters are never simple or easy," Madame Sauerkraut lectured. "Many details remain to be worked out between the two countries. Before any agreement can go forward, the king insists on knowing exactly what you look like, and he is sending a portraitist to paint your likeness. You mother, the empress, is most anxious that your teeth and hair be corrected by the time the painter arrives. The French foreign minister has dispatched a _dentiste _and a friseur to make necessary changes. Then there is the matter of your bosom. The king is particularly concerned that you have lovely breasts to be displayed in the gowns now in fashion at the court of Versailles."

"Is the king sending someone to fix my bosom as well?" I demanded crossly. "I've not yet become a woman, you know."

Madame Sauerkraut pursed her thin lips. "Then, Madame Antoine, best you pray it happens soon," she advised. "I'm sure you're aware that your most important duty as dauphine will be to produce the next heir to the French throne."

I was aware of it, but I understood only vaguely how this important duty was to be accomplished. I assumed that I would receive instructions as I did in my other subjects, most of which I disliked. Maybe the instructions for producing an heir would prove more interesting than mathematics.

I was making little progress with the French language, always substituting German words when I couldn't think of the proper French words, and my accent was judged "intolerable". A French priest came to remedy that. Abbé de Vermond, a tall, thin man with sad, drooping eyes, spoke with an accent different from any I had ever heard. I could scarcely understand a word he said. The _abbé _would also tutor me in French history, of which I was completely aorrogant. When my brother Joseph learned that I was equally ignorant of the history of my own country, he ordered that subject added to my studies.

"And you must read more, dear sister," Joseph said, wagging a finger at me. "At least two hours a day."

_Two hours! _That was too much. I detested reading! I nodded obediently but made a face as soon as his back was turned.


	3. Rule Number 3

_Rule Number 3: Beauty Must Suffer_

The next Frenchman to introduce himself at the Hofburg Palace was the friseur who had been sent, Monsieur Larsenneur. He had me sit on a stool while he studied my hair from every angle. With a disdainful sniff he plucked off the woolen headband I wore to keep my hair away from my face, and my red-gold curls sprang out in every direction. Monsieur Larsenneur seized a handful of hair and produced a pair of scissors from his pocket.

"Very well, Madame Antoine," he said, "let us proceed."

I shut my eyes tightly and listened to the click of the scissors. _Snip, snip, snip! _If he kept on, I would soon be bald. Presently he put a small mirror in my hand. _"Voilá, madame!" _he declared. "Open your eyes and tell me what you see!"

The friseur had transformed a mountain of bushy hair into a pretty coif that hid my high forehead. He'd added a dusting of white powder and tucked a few little jewels among the tamed curls. "I call it the _coif á la Pompadour_," he explained, "in honor of Madame de Pompadour, the late great friend of His Majesty, King Louis." He stepped back to admire his handiwork.

I had never heard of Madame de Pompadour, but I loved the way my hair looked. Everyone complemented me. Even Mama.

If only my teeth could have been so easily ficed!

The friseur was soon followed by the _dentiste_, Doctor Bourdet, who peered inside my mouth and poked my teeth with his fingers.

"The canines must be moved," he said and then he muttered something about a pelican.

I thought the canines he talked about were probably dogs, and the pelican must be some exotic sea bird, and none of it made any sense to me. Then, without a word of warning, he placed a block of wood in my mouth to hold it open, gripped one of my upper teeth in the jaws of a dreadful instrument—this was the pelican—and forced the tooth into a new position. I let out a shriek of pain and terror, my arms and legs flailing. Several footmen rushed to pin me down and hold me head in place. While I howled, Doctor Bourdet repeated the horrible process on the remaining three canines—my pointed teeth, it turned out, and not dogs at all.

_"Pas plus, je vous en prie!" _I pleaded. "No more, I beg you!" But he ignored my cries and sobs and went on poking around in my mouth, tying each poor canine in its proper place with a leash of silk thread.

At last he put away his awful tools and wiped his bloody hands on a towel. "You have nothing more to fear, madame. The worst is over. We shall continue with additional adjustments when you've had time to heal." He tried to sound reassuring, but I was not reassured.

After he'd gone, Madame Sauerkraut rubbed a soothing medicine on my throbbing gums but offered little sympathy. "I remember well when your mother, the empress, endured a dental extraction with scarcely a murmur, just hours before the birth of your older brother," she reported. "The empress expects you to bear the moving of a few little teeth with the same resoluteness."

"I am not as brave as my mother," I said miserably. "And it hurts a lot. It still does."

For days my mouth pained me so much that I couldn't eat. The only good result to come of this wretchedness was that my French lessons had to be suspended because I could hardly speak. Instead, Abbé de Vermond had me begin to memorize the names and titles of the most important members of the French court and learn how they were related to one another. If it were possible to die of boredom, I would have expired immediately.

Eventually the pain went away, and Doctor Bourdet returned. I didn't trust him not to inflict more torture, and I kept my jaws firmly clamped shut and refused to let him peer inside my mouth. Madame Sauerkraut threatened to report my obstinate behavior to Mama, and the _dentiste _coaxed and promised there would be no more of the dread pelican. Finally I allowed him to do as he wished. What choice did I have?

He attached innocent-looking gold wires to my teeth. "See how simple?" he asked. "These little wires will guide your teeth in the direction they should go, the way one trains the branches of a train. You are young, and they will move quite easily."

When he had finished, he brought me a little mirror. I grinned at my reflection. The gold wires, fastened to each tooth with silk thread, gleamed back at me. I thought I looked ridiculous.

"A small adjustment now, madame," he said, and drew the wires tighter.

"_Aïe!" _I cried. "That hurts!"

"Only for a little while," Doctor Bourdet purred.

He lied, just as I knew he would.

Every day Doctor Bourdet inspected my mouth and made more adjustments, always twisting those gold wires a tiny bit tighter.

"Beauty must suffer," Madame Sauerkraut said pitilessly whenever I cried and pleaded to have the dreadful wires removed. But she did bring me sweet puddings and broth with soft noodles, assuring me the suffering would soon end. "Improvement is even more rapid than the _dentiste _expected," she said. "And you will be blessed with a lovely smile."

Meanwhile the king's portrait artist, Monsieur Ducreux had reached Vienna. My mother invented one excuse after another to keep me hidden away until my transformation was complete. After three months Doctor Bourdet removed the hateful gold wires. Out came the mirror once more, which he handed me with a flourish. I smiled at my reflection, and the reflection that smiled back at me was beautiful indeed—my blue eyes, my unblemished complexion, my elegantly coiffed hair, and now my perfect smile.

I turned to the man who created it and forgave him for all the pain. "You may tell Monsieur Ducreux that I'm ready to sit for him," I informed Madame Sauerkraut.

**-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

Monsieur Ducreux believed the face told everything about a person. "Your heart and your soul are all reflected in your face, and that is what I must portray," said the painter. "But you must sit quietly for me, Madame Antoine, and think only the most beautiful thoughts."

I didn't like sitting quietly, but I did as Monsieur Ducreux asked. When the portrait was finished—Mama agreed it was all she'd wished for—the painter and the painting left for Versailles. Soon after Easter, our household moved to Schönbrunn Palace, on the outskirts of Vienna, for the summer months. My governess told me my portrait had arrived at Versailles and that King Louis XV was pleased. He sent his ambassador to deliver to the empress a formal proposal of marriage between the dauphin and me.

Mama was jubilant. "We have triumphed!" she announced when she got around to telling me that I would be married the following year.


	4. Rule Number 4

_Rule Number 4: Perfection Must Be Your Goal_

During my months of seclusion from society, while my teeth were in wires, there had been only one bright spot: my mother had begun to assemble my bridal trousseau. The duc de Choiseul, the French foreign minister who had criticized my hair and teeth, now informed the empress that my Austrian wardrobe must be replaced by one made in the very best French style. The most elaborate gown, the _grand habit de cour_, was reserved for great court occasions, while the _robe á la française _was required for most public events. I needed several of each, as well as a variety of morning dresses and afternoon gowns for less formal times. Velvets and heavy brocades were prescribed for the winter season, lighter silks for the summer. Certain colors could be worn on some days but not on others. Everything must be the work of the finest seamstresses and cobblers, furriers and silkwomen, glovemakers and milliners to be found in Paris.

"I have agreed to it all," Mama informed me. "You must be perfectly dressed for every occasion, Antoine, and I am willing to spend a fortune to be sure that you are."

Soon dozens of _poupées du mode_, wooden fashion dolls, began arriving from Paris. Each doll was dressed in a miniature version of a particular robe or gown that had been proposed for my wardrobe. I had always loved to play with dolls. And though I was too old for that now, I exclaimed over their beautiful clothes—clothes that would soon be mine.

The delivery to the palace of a new trunkful of _poupées du mode _always caused excitement. Each timeone arrived, Madame Sauerkraut allowed me to interrupt my dull studies, and I sent for my two best friends, Charlotte and Louise, the princesses of Hesse-Darmstadt, telling them to drop whatever they were doing to rush to my boudoir. My little niece Maria Teresa, Joseph's daughter, pouted if I forgot to send for her as well. my maidservants reverently unpacked the dolls, which were dressed in gowns of silk.

"Oh, how lovely!" Charlotte sighed rapturously.

"Exquisite," Louise murmured.

My niece carefully touched the smooth silk. Even Madame Sauerkraut allowed herself to admire the delicious colors and rich embroidery.

After a few months the actual gowns arrived for fittings by our royal seamstresses. Fittings were tedious, but I didn't protest the long hours I had to stand still the seamstresses pinned and tucked. The gowns were laden with lace and ribbons and flowers and feathers and beads and fringe, and they sparkled with jewels. Austrian ladies never wore anything like these gowns, with the enormous skirts draped over gigantic panniers—hoops—tied on either side of the hips.

Emperor Joseph disliked the style. "Women look like donkeys carrying baskets of chickens to market," my brother had remarked ungallantly, he opposed such ornate costumes at our Viennese court.

I thought the French gowns were brilliant. Those wide skirts—wider than three or four men standing side by side—showed off a tightly laced waist easily encircled by two hands. But the dramatic fashion did present problems. The skirts were hard to maneuver through narrow doorways, and it was almost impossible to sit down in them.

Monsieur Noverre, dancing master to the imperial court, had been summoned to teach me the French dances I would be expected to perform flawlessly at the court of Versailles. I had to learn not only the steps of the minuet and several other dances but also the exact manner in which to walk, stand, and sit while wearing those awkward gowns.

"You must hold your head erect and your body upright, without affectation or boldness," he explained. "Then it will be said, 'There goes a fine lady.' You must remain poised at all times, and yet you must appear entirely natural."

This made no sense to me, but I nodded agreeably.

Monsieur Noverre explained how to make an obeisance: with my feet turned out, as I was taught when I danced ballet with my brothers, I had to keep my body upright, bend my knees slightly, and lower my gaze. "As dauphine, you will find yourself making such gestures at every moment, though yours will, in the main, be an acknowledgement of a person of a lesser rank. Still, you will be expected to make this acknowledgement whenever someone hands you something, or enters your chamber, or leaves it, or greets you, or takes leave of you—"

"How dreadfully tiresome it all is!" I cried. I had been practicing this little movement, the obeisance, for what seemed like hours.

"But absolutely necessary, madame," Monsieur Noverre continued patiently. "It has been thus for at least a hundred years, since the reign of King Louis the Fourteenth. Perfection must be your goal."

Now the dancing master tried to teach me how to walk properly. I was sure I already knew how to walk properly. What could be simpler?

I was wrong.

"It is necessary for the dauphine of France to walk gracefully in high-heeled slippers and the heavy _robe á la française_, with its wide skirts and long train. You see, madame, that you must not walk heel to toe, as one does normally, but with many tint steps made quickly while balancing forward on one's toes, so that one gives the impression of skimming just above the surface of the ground without touching it, as though one weighs no more than a cloud. This is well known as the Versailles glide."

Rising on my toes, I lurched across the floor of the hall where we practiced the court dances. Monsieur Noverre watched, shaking his head. "Float, madame, float! _Comme ceci_," he cried. "Like this." He demonstrated, and I tried to copy him. "_Encore, madame, s'il vous plait_," he said with utmost patience. "Again, madame, if you please."

Monsieur Noverre was very exacting, and so I did it again and again, first in my usual flat slippers, later in shoes with high heels. My legs began to ache. "Why would anyone want to _do _this?" I asked, weary and tearful.

"No one _wishes _to do it, Madame Antoine, but one is _expected _to do it, as in all things at the court of Versailles. As you shall see for yourself very soon."

Grimly I practices until I finally mastered the Versailles glide and could sweep gracefully across the hall without a stumble.

"And now you must learn to do it while wearing the _robe á la française_," said the dancing master.

Someone had had the wisdom to order a practice version of the royal court dress; it was made of heavy brocade and weighted down with fake jewels and cheap embroidery and lace. "This thing weighs as much as I do!" I complained after my ladies had fastened the two huge panniers on my hips, maneuvered me into the gown that now extended far out on each side, and attached the heavy train at my back. Tightly laced stays bit into my flesh. I could hardly breathe. When I tried to step into my high heeled slippers, I realized that I should have put them on _before _I'd gotten into the gown. It was out of the question either to sit down or to balance in this enormous creation. My friends Princess Charlotte and her younger sister, Princess Louise, supported me while my little nice Teresa crept under the voluminous skirt and managed to get a slipper on each foot. All of us veered between giddy and laughter and helpless tears.

I teetered uncertainly for a moment. Then I lifted my chin, shifted the weight of my body onto my ties—and glided gracefully across the floor. My friends applauded.

My dancing teacher stepped forward, bowed, and raised my hand to his lips. "Believe me, Madame Antoine," said Monsieur Noverre, "you will enchant everyone who sets eyes upon you."

**-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

On the eve of my name day, the Feast of Saint Anthony, June 14, my mother, the empress, invited hundreds of people to the Schloss Laxenburg, my favorite country palace, for a celebration of my betrothal to the dauphin. I wore a beautiful gown of embroidered rose-colored silk (at my brother's insistence, the panniers under my skirt were much smaller than those I would wear in Paris). My hair was done in the _coif á la Pompadour_, and I smiled my beautiful new smile. Guests dined on our good German food and dance our good German dances. I adored being the center of attention and gave no thought to the fact that in less than a year I would be eating French food and dancing French dances. A year seemed like a very long time—almost forever.


	5. Rule Number 5

_Rule Number 5: You Are Born To Obey, and You Must Learn To Do So_

It was Amalia's time to leave. In July, Joseph would escort my sister over the Alps to marry Ferdinand, the duke of Parma. For a while no one had been sure which Ferdinand—the one from Parma or the one from Naples—was going to marry which sister, Carolina or Amalia. But the king of Naples, who had lost first Johanna and then Josepha, chose Carolina. That left Amalia with the duke of Parma, the brother of Joseph's first wife, Isabella. Even that was a complicated story: Joseph had been violently in love with Isabella, but Isabella was not in love with _him_—she was in love with our sister Mimi! My older sisters gossiped about that, sometimes forgetting I was around when they talked about how Mimi and Isabella were always together, holding hands and kissing, and how Joseph always flew into jealous rages. Now it was Amalia who was in rage as she prepared to marry a man she was ready to hate.

"Duke Ferdinand is weak-minded, did you know that?" Amalia said to me. "Joseph let it slip. And he's only sixteen—sex years younger than I am! It's all too revolting." She paused in our conversation to scream at the maidservants who were packing her trunks for the journey. "I know why Joseph is making the journey with me," she went on. "He's afraid I'll try to run away. And I'd do it if I could." Her hands were balled into fists, and she pounded on the lid of a trunk until the maids scurried away in fright. "Oh, I despise them all, Antonia!" she cried. "Mama and Joseph for forcing my dear Charles to leave Austria, and that spoiled brat Mimi for being able to get whatever she wants, and the dimwitted clod I'm to marry! But I promise you this, Antonia, once I am there, I shall do exactly as I want! I'll sleep with whomever I please, and there's nothing Ferdinand or Mama or Joseph or anyone else can do to stop me!"

I burst into tears because I was so shocked at her anger and her threats that I truly didn't know what to say. _You are born to obey. _I could scarcely imagine having the courage to defy Mama's rules, but I had not the slightest doubt Amalia would do as she threatened. A part of me envied her determination.

The very next day she was gone. I stood in the court yard of Schönbrunn, waving and waving as her carriage drove away, but Amalia stared grimly straight ahead and never looked back.


	6. Rule Number 6

_Rule Number 6: Never Behave In a Manner to Shock Anyone_

Scarcely a month after Amalia left to marry her awful duke, Mama decided to take me on a pilgrimage to Mariazell, a long day's journey west of Vienna. She wanted to visit the church where she had received her First Communion. This plan surprised me, for we had never before gone on a religious retreat—or anywhere else—together. The empress was usually too busy conduct the business of the empire to spend time alone with me. Sometimes I didn't see my mother at all for days on end, or I encountered her only on formal state occasions. Now that Amalia and Carolina were gone and Mimi lived in Pressburg, a few hours' journey down the Danube, maybe Mama would have more time for me. I would never be her favorite—that would always be Mimi—but I did look forward to the pilgrimage.

I hoped we would have a good talk as the carriage rolled through the countryside, but Mama said we must spend the time in silent meditation, so we did. Once in Mariazell, we knelt in prayer for hours before the shine of basilica. I thought the paintings on the ceilings were beautiful, but whenever Mama noticed my attention wandering, she tapped me on the arm. Later, when we finally stopped praying, she began to speak to me of serious matters. She worried, she said, about how I would maintain my faith in God and remain virtuous to the court of Versailles. Everyone knew the French court was completely lacking in Christian value!

"You must be obedient," Mama said. "You must learn the customs of the French court and follow them meticulously. You must not do anything unusual or show any initiative but always ask for guidance. Never behave in a manner to shock or upset anyone. Never forget your private devotions. You must not read any books that have not been approved by your confessor. At the same time, my dear Antoine, you must remain a good German and remember always to put your country first."

"_Ja, _Mama." I agreed to whatever she said but without ant clear idea of what I must do or how I should do it.

"You will walk a fine line," she concluded. "But I have great confidence that you will accomplish it to perfection."

Before we retired on our last night at Mariazell, my mother announced that she wished to speak to me about marriage. _At last! _I thought.

"Love between husband and wife is the highest blessing bestowed by God on human beings," she said. "My greatest wish for you is the kind of fulfilling marriage I enjoyed with your dearest father." She began weeping, as she always did when she talked about Papa. "Your father was the best of all husbands," she said tearfully.

I murmured, "_Ja, _Mama," and "Of course, Mama," but I found this quite confusing, not at all the practical advice I'd hoped for.

I had loved my father dearly. He always showed his affection for me far more openly than my mother did. After his death, five years earlier, my mother had cut off her long, thick hair, put away all her jewels, dressed in black, and draped her imperial apartments in somber black velvets. Nothing had changes since then. She was still in mourning. Yet I remembered the gossip I'd overheard while Papa was still alive. Servants who must have thought I was deaf or too young to understand whispered about his many mistresses, especially a certain young Princess Auersperg, whom they said he loved unrestrainedly and my mother hated with all her heart.

I understood that having a mistress was a man's privilege and a wife's burden. I thought it likely my own future husband would exercise the privilege as well. But what about Amalia, angrily declaring that she was going to sleep with as many men as she wanted? Did women usually sleep with men who were not their husbands? I wondered. I didn't know, and it certainly wasn't a question I could ask Mama—especially during a pilgrimage to the Blessed Virgin!

"I must ask you again, dear child," she whispered now confidentially, "Have you yet has a visit from Général Krottendorf?"

I shook my head. _Général Krottendorf _was the term my sisters used to refer to the monthly cycle. I had no idea where that name had come from. But I had not yet become a woman, and so there had been no visit from the _général._

Mama sighed. "You must tell me immediately, of course, for there can be no wedding until you have reached that critical milestone. The French will insist the marriage delayed until you are ready to bare children. Remember, it is your sacred duty to provide a male heir to the throne of France."

"I understand," I said and leaned forward eagerly, hoping since we were on the subject, or at least close to it, Mama would tell me in plain words what was expected of me once I was a wife. I was still completely ignorant of the process of conceiving—Madame Sauerkraut had so far not been helpful—and I had only the vaguest notion of what was involved in performing my sacred duty. I assumed my future husband would know, but I wanted to be informed as well.

When my mother said nothing more, I decided to press on. "My dearest Mama," I began, "I know nothing of the mysteries of…"—I searched for the right words—"of the marriage bed. Perhaps you could explain it to me?"

"The time is not right yet, my sweet Antoine," she said, drawing away from me a little. "If I revealed these mysteries now, months before your wedding, it would only give you time to wonder about them. Once you've become a woman, then you shall receive a frank explanation. In the meantime, I would advise you to direct your prayers to the Blessed Virgin. I've always found her sympathetic."

Mama folded her hands and closed her eyes, and that was the end of the discussion.


	7. Rule Number 7

_Rule Number 7: Learn To Concentrate_

I turned fourteen on November 2, All Souls' Day. Because that date was an occasion observed somberly by the church, the gala celebration of my birthday was held on its eve, All Saints' Day. Four thousand people were invited to attend a masked ball. It seemed that everybody in Vienna wanted to have a glimpse of the archduchess who would soon become the dauphine of France and someday its queen. Engravings made of my portrait began to appear all over Vienna. The best gift of all was from Joseph, who gave me a little pug dog I called Mops. Mops followed me everywhere, getting in the way and leaving his messes wherever he went.

I was busy now from morning till night. When Abbé de Vermond discovered that I couldn't perform simple arithmetic or find my own country or the city of Paris on a map, he added some mathematics and a smattering of geography to my lessons.

"You think I'm stupid, don't you, Abbé?" I asked him one day when he had grown so impatient with me that he had to leave the room for a while.

"_Non_, Madame Antoine, I do not think you are stupid. Not at all! In fact, I find you vey clever. But you must learn to concentrate. You are like a _papillon_, a beautiful butterfly, your mind flitting first here, then there, then somewhere else. Am I right, madame?"

"Completely," I said, pleased that he understood. "There are lots of things that interest me much more than reading and writing. And now adding up those silly numbers and multiply and dividing! And why must I learn to read a map when I may go only where I am taken? What's the use of any of it? Better just to have fun and enjoy oneself, wouldn't you agree?"

Abbé de Vermond frowned and wrinkled his brow as he tried to think of a way to persuade me to be more serious about my studies. I leaned toward him with my brightest smile. "Don't worry, Abbé," I said. "I won't embarrass you, I promise. I'll learn just what I need to know. And no more!"

The _abbé _didn't smile back at me. "At the very least, you must continue with your study of French," he said.

"I like to speak French," I said. "But, _mon cher abbé, _you must know how much I hate to write! You yourself have complained that I write so slowly that you're afraid we'll both grow old before I finish a letter. And reading is such a bore! Won't it do just as well to have you read to me?"

The _abbé _sighed. "_Comme vous voulez, madame—_as you wish," he said. He gave me a courtly bow—and stepped into one of Mops's messes.


	8. Rule Number 8

_Rule Number 8: Master the Rules for Their Gambling Games_

The French ambassador, the marquis de Durfort, rode in from Versailles in January of 1770, carrying a small golden coffer ornamented with jewels. Inside the coffer was my engagement ring, set with pleasingly large diamonds and pearls. On a Sunday morning after Mass at the Church of the Augustinian Friars, the archbishop blessed the ring. Accompanied by Princess Charlotte, Princess Louise, and my little niece Teresa, I approached the altar. As proxy for the dauphin, my dashing older brother Ferdinand stepped forward and slipped the ring on my finger. Their choir sang, and all eyes were upon me. After years of being the generally ignored fifteenth child, I loved being the center of attention.

But the occasion was marred by tragedy. That very night at a festive dinner my niece fell ill and had to be taken away be her governess. Two days later, Teresa died. Emperor Joseph was devastated.

"Dear God in heaven, restore me to my daughter!" my brother sobbed at the child's funeral. Courts all over Europe went into mourning, ending the festivities in my honor for a time. But the little body in its small coffin had scarcely been removed to the burial vault before my governess and my tutor insisted I returned to my studies.

Then, just as suddenly, there was another crisis. For some time Countess Lerchenfeld had complained of pain in her leg. I paid hardly any attention, for Madame Sauerkraut complained a great deal about a great many things. She was absent for a few days, and glad to be free of her constant criticism, I barely thought of her until Abbé de Vermond brought me startling news: Madame Sauerkraut was dead. I'm sorry to say I did not mourn her passing, although naturally I put on the proper grieving face and attended the countess's Requiem Mass with my mother.

I wondered, but I did not ask, who would now become my governess. The answer, announced a few days later, was Madame Sauerkraut's sister-in-law, Countess Trautmansdorf. A smiling woman with cheeks as round as apples, she asked me to call her Madame Lulu. She bustled into my apartments to take over her duties on the same day as the longed-for arrival of Général Krottendorf. I had become a woman.

I rushed to tell Mama the good news myself. She embraced me with tears in her eyes and immediately sent word to the French ambassador, who dispatched a courier on a fast horse to Versailles. The appearance of the _general _changed everything. Plans for my wedding could now go forward. Maybe my bosom would soon grow large enough to please the king. And I would receive the promised explanation of the mysteries of the marriage bed, I hoped.

Madame Lulu undertook to tutor me in a subject she considered of even greater importance, or at least one that needed more detailed instruction. I must learn to play _jeu de cavagnole_, an Italian game of chance popular at the French court. "Everyone at Versailles loves to gamble," said the countess, "and you will be expected to preside over gambling tables."

I liked to play games, but I thought _jeu de cavagnole_ was tiresome—almost as tedious as my studies. Dozens of subtle rules governed the game players. "You are expected to master them all," said Madame Lulu, ignoring my complaints.

So day after day I practiced diligently, and night after night I persuaded various members if the Viennese court to play, and eventually I could manage the game and the side bets effortlessly as I glided across the marble floors of the Hofburg.

But still I learned nothing about what I was to expect on my wedding night.


	9. Rule Number 9

_Rule Number 9: You Must Submit Bravely_

One day, soon after Madame Lulu moved into Madame Sauerkraut's old quarters, I received a letter from my sister Carolina. We hadn't corresponded much since she'd left to marry King Ferdinand of Naples, but I loved to receive letters almost as much as I hated to write them. Eagerly, I broke the seal. In handwriting so much clearer and neater than mine, she began with congratulations and kind wishes for my future, having heard—from Mama, I supposed—of my engagement to the dauphin. I expected to read news of her life at the court, but instead I found something quite different.

_Oh, my dear little Antonia, I do hope that someone—other than Mama!—will undertake to prepare you for marriage. I found it a terrifying experience. I was just fifteen, as you'll recall, a little older than you will be when you marry the dauphin. I was ill-prepared for the painful separation from the ladies, even Lerchenfeld, who accompanied me on my journey to Naples. I was even less prepared to meet my future husband. Why had Lerchenfeld not spoken to me of the wedding night, except to caution me to "think about God"? Death would have been preferable to what o had to endure._

My legs grew weak, and I had to sit down before they gave way completely. My hands were shaking, but I couldn't stop reading:

_One suffers real martyrdom, which is all greater because one must pretend to be happy. I would rather die than endure again what I had to suffer for eight days after the wedding. It was an earthly hell. I live in dread now of what you, dearest Antonia, will have to suffer. I shall shed many tears when you face this situation in a few short months, for I do believe all men are brutes, at least until one learns to tame them._

Madame Lulu found me collapsed on my bed, sobbing. Without a word I handed her Carolina's letter and buried my face in my pillow.

"Oh, my poor darling." Madame Lulu sighed. "It's not as bad as that, I promise you. Now dry your tears and let's have a little talk, for I can see that your sister has frightened you badly."

Once I was calmer, the dear lady tried to explain the differences between men and women in very general terms, and she expressed the hope that the dauphin would be kind and gentle, that any unpleasantness would be gotten over quickly—it sounded like something I'd endured with the pelican—and that with time and patience I could learn to enjoy what she called "the act."

"But you must always keep in mind that your principal duty as the dauphine—some would say your sole duty—is to give birth to the Children of France. For that, you must submit bravely to the act."

_"Oui, je comprends," _I murmured. "I understand."

I understood my duty—I'd certainly heard it often enough—but I still did not understand to act. When I asked Madame Lulu to describe it in more precise terms, she blushed deeply and finally managed to whisper, "Two beloved bodies become one."

I would have to be content with that explanation of the great mystery.

Another mystery was the dauphin himself. I wore his ring. I had received a letter from him, written in Latin—the _abbé _translated it for me—pledging his honor and respect. Bu I still had no idea what he looked like. I had heard his grandfather King Louis XV described as the handsomest man at the French court. But what about Louis-Auguste?

By the time Général Krottendorf had made his second visit, two portraits of Louis-Auguste had arrived from Versailles. I gazed at the portraits, one a miniature of the other. Here was a young man with thick, dark eyebrows, a small mouth, and heavy-lidded eyes that seemed to be peering at something far away. I had the larger portrait hung in my boudoir and wore the miniature pinned to my waist, and every day I studied the pictures, trying to imagine what it would be like to speak to him, to sit beside him, to touch him. I could not.

I showed the portrait to my friend Princess Charlotte, who was always very honest when asked her opinion. "What do you think?" I asked. "Speak truthfully."

"It doesn't matter what I think," she said, glancing at the painted image and then at my face. "It only matters what _you _think."

"He's not exactly handsome, is he?"

"But he's not ugly," Charlotte said. "In fact, I think he looks interesting."

"Yes," I agreed. "Interesting."

Madame Lulu found me contemplating the portrait one day. A silent tear rolled down my cheek, followed by another, and another. "What is it, my child? Why this sadness? This is a time for rejoicing!"

"Oh, Lulu, what if I just can't bare him?" I asked.

"You must remember that the goodness in his heart will doubtless gar outweigh any other qualities," she said thoughtfully. "Remember too that love begets love. The dauphin cannot help but fall deeply in love with you, and his love will blind you to any other faults he may have."

I hoped she was right. If she was wrong, I was surely doomed to misery.


	10. Rule Number 10

_Rule Number 10: All Eyes Are Upon You—There Can Be No Mistakes_

Easter fell on April 15 in 1770, and though it was the custom of the imperial court to move from the Hofburg to my mother's favorite palace, Schöbrunn, during the week after Easter, she had decided to postpone the move until after I left for Versailles.

April was a turbulent month and for me and, no doubt, for everyone in my household. I endured an unsettling mix of excitement, fear, and sadness. I now spoke French easily, and a French actor was polishing my accent. I had mastered the Versailles glide and was pronounced a most elegant dancer by my dancing teacher. Trunk after trunk of robes and gowns arrived every week from France to be fitted by our royal seamstresses, along with countless boxes of thin slippers with high heels, silk stockings, delicately embroidered underthings, furs and feathers. My mother had spared no expense for my trousseau—four hundred thousand _livres, _more than she'd spent on all of my sisters put together! I hoped Mimi had heard _that _little piece of news!

The French ambassador, the duc de Choiseul, and Count Mercy d'Argenteau, the Austrian ambassador, were making preparations for my bridal journey from Vienna to Paris; I was to be accompanied by members of the Viennese court as far as the border between Germany and France.

Two days after Easter I signed papers giving up all my claims to the crown of the Holy Roman Empire. It was a symbolic act, for I had two brothers whose claims were ahead of mine anyway, but the signing became the occasion for a grand celebration. Though Joseph was still mourning the loss of his precious child, my brother set aside his grief in order to provide a magnificent supper for more than a thousand guests. Hundreds more attended a masked ball that lasted until daybreak. That was just the first of many celebrations; night after night the whole city of Vienna was aglow with lanterns. The sky blazed with fireworks as my wedding day drew near. Not since before my dear papa's death had the people of Vienna enjoyed such spectacles.

On April 19, at sick o'clock in the evening, I entered the Church of the Augustinian Friars next to the Hofburg. My mother and my brother Joseph, empress and emperor, led me down the aisle. Madame Lulu walked proudly behind me, carrying my train. My beautiful wedding gown of cloth of silver shimmered in the candlelight. As was the custom, my future husband was not present for the ceremony, but my brother Archduke Ferdinand stood in his place. I was not in the least nervous, for I was surrounded by people who loved me. I felt very elegant, from head to toe a princess.

After the prayers and the blessing of the rings, I said my vows in Latin with hardly any bad mistakes, and Ferdinand repeated the dauphin's vows. Trumpets sounded a triumphant fanfare. Outside the church, the guns of the Hofburg boomed again and again. I was now officially Madame la Dauphine.

Though I tried not to think about it, the time for my departure was quite near, and my mother and I had the last of our long talks. She presented me with a list of rules that she'd drawn up, had copied onto parchment, and placed in a leather case ornamented with pearls and gold. "I beg you to read them once a month," Mama said. "They will guide you."

Then she gave me a tiny gold pendant watch as a keepsake and looked over my shoulder as I struggled to write a proper letter to King Louis. She kept offering bits of advice she thought I'd need, and she repeated the reminder that I must be a perfect Frenchwoman but at the same time remain a good Austrian and always put my country first. "You may be marrying a Bourbon, but you will always be a Hapsburg." Count Mercy d'Argenteau would be there to advise me. I hoped he could explain how I was to do all that.

"Remember," she said, "all eyes will be upon you—there can be no mistakes."


	11. Rule Number 11

_Rule Number 11: The Perfection of Versailles Demands Perfection of Its Residents_

A leaden sky pressed ominously over the city, and rain seemed likely. Dressed in one of my fine brocade gowns and carrying Mops, my little dog, I descended to the courtyard early in the morning of April 21. A splendid carriage waited there. The berline, specially built for me by order of King Louis, was made almost entirely of glass with a roof of solid gold and ornaments of hammered gold garlands and flower bouquets. Eight white horses wearing feather plumes and golden harnesses stood motionless as statuses.

I had already said my formal goodbyes and given tokens of remembrance to my friends Charlotte and Louise, to Madame Lulu, and to my servants and tutors. Now all these dear friends joined the rest of my family for a last farewell. Mama drew me to her breast for a final embrace. She was weeping, though she hardly ever wept unless she was speaking of Papa.

"God bless you, my dearest child," she said. "We are to be separated by a great distance, and only God knows when we shall see each other again." I clung to her, trembling. "I am sending them an angel," she murmured, the words catching in her throat, and she firmly pushed me away.

My brother Ferdinand handed me into the berline. Mops licked the tears that streamed down my cheeks. The princesse de Paar, an old friend of Mama's who would be my companion, climbed in after me. The doors were closed and latched, an order given, and the berline rolled forward. I turned in my seat for a final glimpse of my family and my home. For the next hour I was crying too hard to see much of anything at all.

Once we'd passed beyond Vienna's ancient city walls, my carriage joined the rest of the cortege bound for the place of the _remise. _The princesse de Paar, who'd been silent so far, suddenly came to life. As the wife of the gentleman responsible for the organization of the cortege, she had very important number at her fingertips. There were, she said, 132 members of the imperial court traveling with us, and three times as many servants. Fifty-seven carriages were needed to transport all these people. The prince de Paar had arranged for a change of horses for each carriage at each post stop, every fifteen miles or so, in order to keep the procession moving steadily during the daylight hours.

"That's twenty thousand horses all told, madame!" Princesse de Paar exclaimed. "Can you imagine?"

I yawned. I had always found numbers very uninteresting.

The interior of the berline was exquisitely appointed with every luxury. Velvet cushions were embroidered with scenes representing the four seasons, but the elegance of the carriage and all those cushions didn't make up for the rough roads that we jolted over, hour after hour. A cold rain began to fall. Nevertheless, my mother's subjects turned out in droves to wait in the downpour for a glimpse of the gold and glass berline, and of me, the archduchess on her way to France to marry the dauphin. I waved and smiled as we passed.

None of the ladies except for the princesse de Paar had ever been to France or visited Versailles, and we piled her with questions.

"It is the most beautiful palace in the world!" she declared.

"More beautiful than Schönbrunn?" I asked.

She hesitated a moment. "More opulent," she said. "Schönbrunn is delightful—utterly charming! But Versailles is luxurious; its grandeur exceeds all others. Wait until you see the Hall of Mirrors, and the royal chapel, and the king's apartments. Their beauty is quite overwhelming!" On and on she went, describing brocade and gilding and vast paintings and gardens filled with statuary. Finally she ended with this: "the perfection of Versailles will demand equal perfection from its dauphine."

I began to wonder how I would live up to all these expectations of perfection.

**-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

After a few days my heart began to ache a little less. Except for the pilgrimage I'd made with Mama to Mariazell, I had never before traveled beyond the outskirts of Vienna, and I felt as though I had embarked on a great adventure. To relieve the tedium of the long hours, the ladies of the court took turns riding in my carriage and did their best to amuse me. We played card games. Sometimes they sang, and I joined them in singing, or they had told stories. Occasionally, I slept.

Arrangements had been made for me and my attendants to spend each night in a castle of monastery. After we had dined—sometimes sumptuously, sometimes austerely—and I had retired to the chamber my hosts had taken pains to prepare for me, I took out the miniature portrait of my future husband and studied it.

Night after night I spoke to the portrait of Louie Auguste and imagined what he might say to me. I decided that he was surely intelligent and amusing. No doubt he danced well—Monsieur Noverre had told me that French men were by nature graceful dancers. Probably the dauphin was found of music and would enjoy listening as I played the harp, which I had been practicing faithfully. He probably loved animals and would take at once to my dear little Mops. He would be impressed that I had learned to speak French so well and had mastered the customs of the French court so completely. Maybe he would beg me to tell him about my life in Austria, and I would teach him a few phrases of German just to amuse him. I would do my best to please my dear Louis Auguste—that's how I always addressed him in my imaginary conversations—and he in turn would go out of his way to please me.

After each imagined conversation I wished my future husband a good night's rest, kissed his picture and placed it beneath my pillow, and slept soundly until I was awakened the next morning to continue my journey.

But the hours soon turned monotonous. I was sick of card games and the silly stories the ladies told, and we still had a very long way to travel. After two weeks I thought I could not bear to climb back into my berline, which had once seemed so luxurious but had become a glass prison. Even the princesse de Paar seemed exhausted.

Finally, fifteen days after leaving the Hofburg, we dragged ourselves into the Benedictine abbey where I would pass my last night as an Austrian in my mother's empire. The _remise_—the ceremony of the hand-over, when I would officially leave Austria and all things Austrian behind and become a Frenchwoman—would take place the next day.

I lay awake in my vast bedchamber listening to the nighttime sounds. On a pallet beside my bed a maidservant coughed. An owl hooted outside my window. I slipped out from under a thick coverlet, crept barefoot across the cold stone floor, and knelt on a hard ledge beneath the window. The rain that had fallen throughout most of the day had stopped, and an almost full moon glided through scraps of ragged clouds, spilling patches of pale silvery light on the wet ground. The owl fell silent.

_Tomorrow, _I thought, _I'll be in France. I'll look up at this same moon, but everything will have changed._

A small hare loped out of the shadows and into a swath of moonlight. Suddenly the owl's silhouette blotted out the moon, and the startled hare raced for cover. Too late: the owl plunged silently, seized the luckless hare in its talons, and flew off, its great dark wings beating the air. Shivering, I rushed back to my bed and pulled the coverlet over my head. It was a long time before I slept.


	12. Rule Number 12

_Rule Number 12: An Outward Display of Emotion Violates All the Rules of Etiquette_

I had no idea what to expect.

Prince Starhemberg, the empress's special ambassador in charge of the _remise_, had vaguely described the ceremony. It would take place in a pavilion, built just for this occasion, on a tiny island in the middle of the Rhine, halfway between the German town of Kehl on the east bank of the river and the French town of Strasbourg on the west. An argument about whose signature would appear first on the official documents, the Austrian ambassador's or the French ambassador's, had finally been settled: two sets of paper were drawn up, identical except that the Austrian would sign first on one set and the Frenchman first on the other.

I paid no attention to the arguments or the compromises and didn't even think too much about my part in the ceremony. My thoughts were already racing one week ahead to my meeting with Louis-Auguste: _What is he really like? Will he find me pleasing? Will the conversations I've been having every day with his miniature portrait match the real ones?_

On the morning of May 7, I slipped into a dainty chemise of fine batiste and then drew on a pair of silk stockings, sheer as spider webs and embroidered with gold thread. My ladies helped me into a pair of satin slippers, tightened the stays that squeezed my waist to a span easily encircled by two hands, and fastened two huge panniers on my hips. Once I was dressed in the _grand habit de cour, _the friseur added sparkling jewels to my coif. I was ready.

I maneuvered my skirts into the berline for the short ride to the pavilion. Since I couldn't sit down, I teetered on a tall stool. Prince Starhemberg, carrying mops, managed to cram himself into the carriage with me and my gigantic skirts. "I'm not sure exactly what I'm supposed to do," I confessed to the prince, suddenly worried. At home such public events were always rehearsed, and I'd never had such a big role.

The prince's eyebrows shot up when he realized that I really _didn't _know. "You will enter the great hall of the pavilion from the Austrian side," he explained. "There you will bid farewell to the ladies and gentlemen of the empress's court. After the signing of the official documents, you will depart to the French side, no longer an Austrian but a Frenchwoman. Is it clear so far?"

I said it was and the prince continued. "The comtesse de Noailles, wife of one of King Louis's ambassadors, has been appointed your _dame d'honneur _and will serve in future as mistress of the household. She is said to know everything there is to know about court etiquette to the smallest detail. I'm sure she'll tell you just what to do," he added and patted my hand.

I already knew the countess's name and position, the result of Abbé de Vermond's endless drilling. My carriage rolled to a stop, its front wheels on the bridge to the island, its back wheels still in German territory. The bridge was narrow, my skirts were wide, and my passage from carriage to pavilion extremely awkward.

Members of the French court crowded into the pavilion. The great hall was elegantly furnished with gilded chairs and dark tapestries, but it was also very cold and damp. I began to tremble, partly from the chill but mostly from nervousness. The time had come to bid farewell to the members of my suite, who were now about to leave me and turn back to Vienna. I embraced each one and wept more than a few tears with each goodbye. I held tight to my little dog to calm myself, but suddenly a servant appeared and snatched Mops out of my arms. I could hear the dear little creature whimpering as he was carried away.

The French ambassador chose that moment to present an unsmiling woman with a sharp nose, a cruel mouth, and a chilly manner. "Madame la Cotesse de Noailles!"

The countess swept me a deep curtsy and then eyed me critically—even more critically than my mother had done. "Now, Madame la Dauphine," she said in a voice as hard as marble, "shall we begin the ritual undressing?"

I nodded, choking back tears. I felt sick to my stomach. _What if I throw up?_

Several ladies of the French court stepped forward and, smiling grimly, proceeded to remove my _grand habit_. I had been told this would happen, but I hadn't really understood. "The bride must retain nothing belonging to a foreign court," the countess explained as the ladies worked. The gown had been made from me in France by French seamstresses in a design provided by the French mistress of the wardrobe, but because I had worn it as I entered from Germany, it now represented the life I was leaving behind. I had to go.

The ladies removed the train and the tight-fitting bodice and the enormous skirts, arguing in French among themselves over who should now take possession of this bejeweled costume. I thought this was outrageous. Did they think I could not understand them? But I dared not speak up.

I waited for them to bring the new _grand habit _to replace the one taken from me. But I was in for a shock. They had not yet finished undressing me. Piece by piece, every item I wore—panniers, stays, slippers, stockings, even my chemise—was removed and claimed by the ladies of the French court. Only by thinking quickly did I manage to hide the tiny gold watch my mother had given me, tucking into my coiffure. Now I stood completely naked before a crowd of strangers, Frenchmen and Frenchwoman, who stared and whispered. I heard the men remarking on my bosom, which had in fact grown more generous in the months since the first visit of Général Krottendorf. They commented on every part of my person.

Outside, the rain beat down and the win whistled through the cracks in the pavilion. I shivered with an ugly mixture of fear, cold, and utter humiliation.

I closed my eyes while they stared, praying that my mortification would soon end. Then, piece by piece, I was dressed once more from the skin out in everything new—chemise, stockings, panniers, and a _grand habit _of cloth of gold laden with quantities of lace and ribbon and dozens of glittering gems. A new friseur appeared and dusted my coiffure with powder; the watch remained safely hidden under a pile of curls. The ladies coated my face with a white paste and painted my cheeks with large circles of red rouge. I was now completely French, from the jewels in my hair to the diamond buckles on my high-heeled shoes. I wondered what I looked like with all that rouge.

The ladies of the court escorted me into the damp and drafty _grande salle _of the pavilion. Row upon row of the highest-ranking members of the French court waited to be presented. One after another, the gentlemen bowed low over my hand and the ladies dropped into deep curtsies. Aloud they pledged their loyalty, but their eyes were hard and their smiles seemed empty and false. I heard the whispers behind the jeweled fans: "_L'Autrichienne_…the Austrian girl," but I couldn't fail to notice how they pronounced the second part, _chienne_, with special emphasis: _chienne, _the French word for a female dog, a bitch. What else were they saying about me?

The pain of leaving my mother and my home forever, the weariness of the long journey, the sadness of bidding farewell to all those who had accompanied me, the loss of my beloved Mops, the embarrassment of standing naked in front of strangers, the unfriendly whispers—all of it was suddenly overwhelming. My composure deserted me, and I began to sob. I threw myself into the rigid arms of my _dame d'honneur, _the comtesse de Noailles.

That was a serious error.

The countess shuddered and drew back from my helpless embrace with a look of pure disgust, as though I were covered in horse dung. "Madame la Dauphine," she said, her voice as cold and brittle as an icicle, "such an outward display of emotion by a member of the royal family is unseemly and in violation of all the rules of etiquette."

One last sob caught in my throat. I knew I had made a significant mistake by letting my feelings overcome me and I told myself sternly that I would never, _ever _allow that to happen again. "I bed you pardon, madame," I said. My voice was now calm and steady. "And I ask you to forgive the tears I have just shed for my family and for my homeland. From this moment on I shall never forget that I am a Frenchwoman.

The _comtesse's _eyelids fluttered, her nostrils flared, and her frigid expression betrayed exactly how she felt about my breaking of a basic rule of etiquette. "Excellent," she said.

The roof of the pavilion had begun to leak. Water dripped down the silks and the velvets and the complicated coiffures of the ladies and gentlemen. In a few minutes, I thought, the women who judged me would all look like drowning rats. The notion made me smile.

Still smiling and with my head held high, I swept out of the pavilion and climbed into my berline, which had been brought around from the German side. The order was given, trumpets sounded, and the grand procession crossed the Rhine. I had entered France.


	13. Rule Number 13

_Rule Number 13: Our Sovereign Is Never To Be the Object of Humor_

Church bells rang out across Strasbourg. Little girls shyly presented me with bouquets of flowers and scattered petals under my feet as I walked. The mayor greeted me in German, no doubt intending to please me, but I interrupted him in French. "Monsieur le Marie, do not speak to me in German, _s'il vous plait. _From now on I want to hear only French."

That brought cheers from the crowd. Instead of insulting whispers of _"_"_l'Autrichienne," _there were cries of "How beautiful is our dear dauphine!" My heart lifted with the warmth of the welcome, so different from the chill of the _remise_. I smiled until my face ached. That night I slept soundly for the first time since I had left Vienna and without dreams to disturb my rest. The next morning we began that last stage of my bridal journey, to my first meeting with King Louis XV and my husband, the dauphin. In a few days I would no longer need to depend on invented conversations with the miniature portrait of Louis-Auguste. I would meet my husband face to face.

At midafternoon on Monday, May 14, my cortege rolled slowly into a great forest near Compiégne.

"This is the dauphin's favorite place to hunt," said Prince Starhemberg, who must have been very relieved as I was that the journey was nearing its end. The responsibility for my safe delivery to the king of France was about to be taken off the prince's shoulders. "And there is the king's carriage," he added.

I giggled—loudly, I'm afraid. "Who else would ride in such an elaborate carriage surrounded by such a crowd of courtiers?" I asked.

Comtesse de Noailles, who hovered at my elbow, always ready to correct and admonish, said severely, "Our sovereign is never to be the object of humor."

"I meant no offense, madame," I muttered.

A tall, distinguished-looking man was advancing toward my berline. "Here comes the duc de Choiseul, the French foreign minister," Starhemberg said. "He's the man who persuaded King Louis that you'd be the perfect bride for his grandson."

A pair of footmen unrolled a thick red carpet over the uneven ground, and a third footman opened the carriage door with a flourish. Prince Starhemberg alighted first and turned to hand me down. "Madame la Dauphine, may I present the duc de Choiseul," announced the prince.

The duke bowed, murmuring polite phrases.

"My dear sir," I said—in French, of course—as his lips barely grazed my hand, "I shall never forget that you are the author of my happiness!"

"And the happiness of France," the duke replied with a gracious smile.

An old man—certainly much older than my mother—climbed down stiffly from the royal carriage and made his way towards me. _The king, _I thought. _He walks as though he is always the center of all eyes. _He was followed by three shapeless ladies nearly buried under their unfashionable gowns. Behind them stumbled a large, awkward boy who might have fallen flat if he hadn't been steadied by one of the courtiers. _Could that be—?_

There was no time to speculate. The king halted and leaned on his jeweled walking stick, looking me over intently from my coiffure to my slippers, and gazing with undisguised interest at my bosom. I tried to ignore that stare as the first gentleman of the bedchamber presented me, and I prepared to sink into my deepest curtsy. But at the last moment, I dropped to both knees at the feet of King Louis. _"Mon trés cher grand-pére," _I said. "My very dear grandfather."

That was the right thing to do, even though it surely wasn't in the comtesse de Noaille's rulebook. Beaming, the king raised me up, this time looking at my face instead of my bosom. I knew by his smile that I had charmed him. I'd heard him described as the handsomest man at the court, and maybe he was—thirty years earlier. His fin dark eyes gleamed with good humor. He bent down and kissed me on first one cheek and then the other. Etiquette required the dauphin to do the same, and the large, awkward boy who I assumed was my husband shuffled forward and stopped short. Unlike his grandfather, he did not look at my bosom or at my face. He stared at the patch of red carpet between us.

I did try to find something attractive about Louis-Auguste, but to be truthful, I could find nothing. I felt nearly ill with disappointment. Could this ungainly fellow be the boy in the painting, the agreeably boy in my imagination who had been engaging in lively conversations for week, the suave young man who was already my husband by law and in another day or two would become my husband in the eyes of God? His chin was heavily jowled. His mouth turned down in a sulk. And he appeared clumsy, probably because he was fat—very fat. I smiled encouragingly at him, but he looked resolutely away, as though the last thing he wanted to do was meet my eyes, let alone kiss me. He seemed so miserable that I felt a little sorry for him.

One of the courtiers leaned close to the dauphin and murmured something in his ear. Louis-Auguste took a tentative step forward, placed his chubby hands on my shoulders, brushed his lips against one cheek and then the other, and released me quickly, almost pushing me away. My smile was wasted. He still wouldn't look at me.

_Maybe he's just shy, _I thought. _Surely he'll get over it._

I took a deep breath and turned my attention to the three dowdy ladies who stood glaring at me—one quite fierce, one quite stout, and one quiet ugly. Thanks to Abbé de Vermond's tutoring I knew who they were: Mesdames Tantes, the daughters of King Louis. "Very important ladies," the _abbé _had told me. "You will surely become intimately acquainted with the dauphin's three unmarried aunts, Madame Adélaïde, Madame Victoire, and Madame Sophie. Since the death of the dauphin's mother and father, the boy has been devoted to his aunts." A for the aunt, he'd said, had become a nun. I mustered another gracious smile and greeted them. They never stopped glowering. And then, thank God, that part was over.

That night we dined at the palace near the forest, and I met one distinguished—and almost indistinguishable—member of the court after another: this prince and princess, that duke and duchess, some other count and countess. There were the elegantly dressed duc de Chartres, who was the king's cousin, and the dauphin's two younger brothers, Louis-Stanislas-Xavier, the comte de Provence, who was at least as fat as Louis-Auguste but boisterous and not at all shy, and Charles-Philippe, the comte d'Artois, a handsome (and still thin) boy of twelve. Abbé de Vermond had been beyond despair to discover that I had no head for numbers and detested reading and writing, but I had easily memorized his chart. Everyone was impressed by my ability to remember names and titles. The dinner lasted a long time.

The following day we traveled to La Muette, a chateau that had once been a royal hunting lodge on the outskirts of Paris. That evening the king was the host at another dinner. Among the guests I noticed a lady who was not on the _abbé's _chart, a strikingly handsome woman with enormous blue eyes. Her breasts were nested like a pair of plump white doves in the shockingly revealing décolletage of her gown. Though she spoiled the effect with a voice as harsh as a crow's, she commanded the king's full attention.

I turned to the comtesse de Noailles and whispered, "Who is that lady?"

The countess gave me that look again, as though an unpleasant scent had been detected by her long, thin nose. "The comtesse Du Barry." She sniffed. "She is here to amuse the king."

Abbé de Vermond had not mentioned her. Unusual, I thought, but I brushed off the omission and replied innocently, "Then I shall be her rival, for I too wish to amuse the king."

The comtesse de Noailes rapidly fluttered her jeweled fan but said no more. How naïve I was! I would learn later that Madame Du Barry was the king's mistress.

In the excitement of the coming wedding celebration I forgot about Madame Du Barry. But I should not have forgotten her, for she, sensing a rival, had already begun to plot my downfall. I just didn't know it then.


	14. Rule Number 14

_Rule Number 14: You Must Be Without Blemish on This Day of All Days_

Wednesday, May 16, 1770: My wedding day.

I was awakened at dawn to make the three-hour journey from La Muette to the Chateau de Versailles. It was still early morning as my berline, cleaned and polished after its long and arduous journey halfway across Europe, rolled through the great iron gates. I was wide awake, and I was thrilled. Who would not have been? Here at last was the splendid palace I'd heard about for so long. At distance Versailles appeared much grander than Schönbrunn, much less gloomy than Hofburg. But as we drew closer, I noticed that the palace was imposing, it was not well kept—the fountains weren't playing; statues lay broken; he grounds were littered with trash. No _Austrian _empress would have allowed such disorder—certainly not Maria Theresa.

The comtesse de Noailles led me to my quarters on the ground floor. The rooms were dark, but not so dark that I didn't notice the worn and shabby furniture and the thick film of dust that lay over everything. Crowds of people had already gathered for the wedding, and they pressed their faces against the windows, trying to peer inside. This was not at all what the princesse de Paar had described.

The countess must have recognized the look of dismay on my face, and she murmured an apology. "This is only temporary, of course. These rooms were once the home of the dauphin's mother," she explained, "and no one has lived in them since she died. Your rooms will soon be ready. But they aren't ready yet."

_Why not? _I wondered. _They've known for months I was coming. If I had time to have my teeth rearranged and to learn all the complicated court dances, couldn't have somebody found the time to dust?_

At that moment two young girls appeared. One was so fat she seemed wider than she was tall, barely able to drop a curtsy without toppling over. The other, a pretty six-year-old, had not yet begun to grow plump. Madame de Noailles introduced the children, Madame Clothilde and Madame Élisabeth, the dauphin's sisters."

"Because of their tender ages, by the rules of etiquette you may receive them before you have put on your _grand habit de cour_," the countess informed me.

I rolled my eyes. These tedious rules of etiquette were obviously going to govern my life. I would just have to get used to it.

The little girls charmed me, but they were soon sent away, for the time had come for me to begin my toilette. A parade of high-ranking ladies now began to undress me. Some I had met at dinner the previous evening at La Muette, and some I had never seen before. The toilette felt very much like the _remise, _something I'd hoped I would never have to endure again. According to some order of precedence that I didn't even try to understand, the ladies took their turns, removing each item of my clothes until, for the second time since I left home, I stood naked and completely exposed. Each item was then replaced with a new one. After heavily powdering my hair, coating my face with white paste and rouge, and putting on my stays and panniers, the ladies presented the _grand habit de cour, _shimmering white cloth of silver stitched with hundreds of diamonds—my wedding gown.

But the splendid gown did not fit! The bodice was far too small. No matter how the ladies tugged and pulled, they could not close it in back. Everyone would see the lacings of my stays as I walked down the aisle of the royal chapel. There was nothing to be done. The clock was ticking toward one o'clock, when I must make my appearance. The train was attached to my shoulders would help to disguise the gap. But it would not be perfect, and those who were searching for flaws in my appearance and deportment would definitely be pleased.

The comtesse de Noailles was much more upset than I was. _"Ce nést pas possible!" _she moaned. "This is not possible! You must be without blemish on this day of all days, and you are not!"

The clock chimed the hour and the doors swung open, and the countess led me to the king's apartments. I'm certain she wished I were more distressed. But surely the gown was not my fault. I would simple have to make the best of it.

King Louis, the dauphin, his brothers and sisters, the aunts, and other members of the royal family, mostly cousins known as the princes and princesses of the blood, stood ready. The procession began to move. Louis-Auguste, looking ill with anxiety, shuffled along beside me, eyes downcast. Behind us came the comtesse de Noailles, keeping her hawk's eye on the young pages carrying my heavy train. Various princes of the blood followed my new brothers-in-law, the comte d'Artois and the comte de Provence, the king, fat Clothilde, and sober little Élisabeth. Mesdames Tantes—Adélaïde, Sophie, and Victoire—came last.

At least six thousand people had crowded into the chateau that day. Women dressed in the formal _grand habit de cour _and men wearing the required ceremonial swords jammed into the grand Galerie des Glaces, the Hall of Mirrors, Tall, arched mirrors—I later counted seventeen of them—lined one wall of the long, narrow arcade, each mirror matched by a window on the opposite wall. The Galerie des Glaces, at least, lived up to the princesse de Paar's description. The day had been brilliantly sunny when we arrived at nine o'clock, but by noon the sun had disappeared behind a heavy curtain of clouds. Now rain threatened, and thunder rumbled in the distance. The lack of sunlight didn't matter, for thousands of candles blazed in the crystal chandeliers. The effect was dazzling.

I tried to draw a deep breath, but alas! my stays were drawn too tight to allow it. With my left hand resting lightly on the dauphin's right, I began the long walk through the magnificent hall, nodding and smiling, acknowledging people I had met or who I somehow sensed were important. Orange trees in silver planters placed among the marble statues released a sweet scent. Solemn chords poured from the great organ in the royal chapel. I remembered my dancing teacher's admonitions to glide along the polished parquet floors. When we reached the chapel, the organ fell silent. Drums and flutes announced our entrance. Everyone rose. With measured steps we continued down the aisle. At the high altar, Louis-Auguste and I knelt beneath a silver canopy. The archbishop of Rheims began to intone the words of the ceremony in Latin, his deep voice filling the chapel.

I glanced at the dauphin. His gleaming gold wedding suit was too tight—possibly as tight as my stays—and strained at every seam. Beads of sweat rolled from under his wig and down his round cheeks, and his hands were shaking. My poor Louis-Auguste! I smiled at him, trying to reassure him: _everything will be fine. _We were both used to public ceremonies. Hadn't we grown up with them?

Yet he continued to tremble, and his breathing was hard and irregular, as though he'd just run a race. When the time came for him to slip the wedding ring on my finger, his face turned bright red. He still avoided looking at me, as he had since I first stepped out of my berline.

The Mass went on at great length, interrupted often by bursts from the choir. When it finally ended, we stepped over to the book in which we were meant to inscribe our names. The king signed first, simply _Louis. _The dauphin signed next, _Louis-Auguste. _When it was my turn, I dropped a blot of black ink beside the name by which I would now officially be known: _Marie-Antoinette-Joséphe-Jeanne. _I had never signed it that way before, and the blot was there, beside the second _J. _A bad omen, but there was no way to fix it.

Oboes, cornets, and trumpets blew a fanfare, the organ began a triumphal march, and Louis-Auguste and I left the chapel side by side. Perhaps when we were finally alone together, he would look at me and speak my name. I was sure I could put him at ease. We returned to the king's apartments. But the day was far from over.


	15. Rule Number 15

_Rule Number 15: Do Not Speak Of How Things Are Done In Austria_

King Louis had a surprise for me. With a flourish he opened the doors of an enormous cabinet, as long as a coffin but much wider and covered in red velvet. Inside were dozens of compartments and drawers of different sizes, each lined with pale blue silk and holding a piece of jewelry. He waved aside his servant and lifted out each piece and presented it to me himself: a diamond necklace, a collar of pearls, earrings set with emeralds, hair ornaments made of precious gems.

"The jewels belonged to the former queen of France," he explained. "And now they belong to you."

There was more to come: a diamond-encrusted fan and several diamond bracelets with my monogram, _MA, _on the clasps. It was not as though I needed any more jewels to ass to the many I brought from Vienna in part of my dowry.

"_Ah, mon cher grand-pére, merci, merci!" _I said. I'm sure my pleasure showed in my face, for I was very fond of jewels.

**-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

Afterwards, I returned to my gloomy apartments—they must have used up all the candles at the wedding—and I was again undressed and dressed once more by a succession of ladies. In a different _grand habit de cour, _with my hair rearranged and the red splotches on my cheeks redone, I was ready for the next event, the presentation of those who would serve me.

A tall, armless chair was brought—the panniers got in the way, of course, but I was grateful to be sitting down as the most tedious of ceremonies followed. Hundreds of people were involved in preparing my food, caring for my gowns, dressing my hair, maintaining my carriage, feeding my carriage horses, and rendering every other kind of service, and every single one of them came forth to kneel before me and swear an oath of loyalty. I thought it would never end.

I wondered what Louis-Auguste and his family were doing as I endured this ritual. I longed for everyone to go away and leave me for a little while, but I realized this was not going to happen. I was tired, and I was hungry too—I'd had nothing to eat since a small breakfast early in the morning. My husband's stomach had rumbled through much of the wedding ceremony.

When the ceremony ended at last, I hurried off in search of the family and found them all playing _jeu de cavagnole. _No one else seemed tired or even hungry. Had they eaten while I was smiling at all those servants? And what about my husband? Louis-Auguste had disappeared. Just when I thought I might do the same, the wedding supper was announced and Louis-Auguste reappeared.

"The _salle de spectacles _was built only weeks ago," the king told me as we entered the opera house. "With you in mind dear," he added.

Every inch seemed to be covered in gold that gleamed in the light of a thousand candles. The upper loges were already crowded with row upon row of people eager to watch the royal festivities below. The king took his place alone at the head of the long table. I was seated on his left, Louis-Auguste on his right. The rest of the royal guests—Artois and Provence, Mesdames Tantes, the princes of the blood, and a few favored courtiers, including the grand huntsman and his daughter-in-law—were seated below us according to rank. There was a roll of drums, the first gentleman on duty waved his silver wand and called, "The king's meat!" and the parade of delicacies began.

Hungry as I was, I passed up nearly all of the dishes I was offered. Mt stays dug mercilessly into my flesh—it was painful when I stood, more painful when I was sitting. Most of the food was unfamiliar to me, except for the strawberries. I loved strawberries.

The dauphin attacked his food with gusto. I watched him finish one plateful after another. He did have a huge appetite. If he had been nervous during our wedding ceremony, his nerves seemed remarkably steadied by the presence of food. _No wonder he's so fat, _I thought, _if he eats like this at every meal._

The king was watching him too. "Don't have too full a stomach for tonight!" he whispered loud enough for me to hear, though I pretended I hadn't.

The dauphin glanced up from yet another plate. "But I always sleep better when I've eaten well." He returned to his meal.

I was nibbling another strawberry when suddenly the sound of the dauphin's voice from across the table startled me. "The strawberries are from the king's garden," he said.

It was the first time my husband had spoken to me without prompting. Our conversation to this point had been limited to, _"Oui, madame," _and "_Si vous voules_—if you wish, madame," in reply to something I had said in one of my attempts to start a conversation. So his remark about strawberries came as a surprise.

_"Pardonnez-moi?" _I said. "Pardon me?"

"The strawberries. They're from the king's garden. It's early for them, but they're grown in special glasshouses."

"Oh," I said. "They're delicious."

"I'm fond of them myself."

"At home we use them to whiten the skin," I said, an attempt to keep out little conversation going. Then I realized I'd committed a blunder. _Home _was not to be mentioned. My mother had warned me not to mention how we do things in Austria. The comtesse de Noailles would have been shocked if she'd been close enough to hear. I corrected myself. "I meant to say, I've been told that women sometimes use crushed strawberries to improve their complexions."

"You complexion would require no improvement, madame," said the dauphine. T was delighted that he had said something nice to me.

But we couldn't discuss the use of strawberries for long. Supper was to be followed by dancing, followed—if it didn't rain—by fireworks, and then the final ritual of the very long day: the wedding night. I didn't want to think about that. Not yet.

The king, who'd been observing us fondly, signaled that the meal had ended and dancing would now begin. Louis-Auguste, fairly calm a moment earlier, became nervous again. "It's the _danse á deux," _he muttered as we waited for the table to be carried away. "I hate to dance."

I had spent many weeks with Monsieur Noverre preparing for this moment, when the dauphin and I, the highest-ranking people in the great _salle de spectacles _except for the king, were expected to perform the minute alone. My mother had told me often, "Every eye will be upon you," and that was certainly true now.

All eyes were also upon Louis-Auguste. He bowed stiffly, the music started, and together we began to move through the prescribed steps. Despite my husband's clumsiness, we managed not to make any serious mistakes. Our places were taken by the next-ranking couple and others joined them. I would have been happy to dance all night. I was tired, but I knew quite well that my true test was coming: _first the wedding, then the bedding._

And then a sudden downpour canceled the fireworks. There would be no further delays.


	16. Rule Number 16

_Rule Number 16: This Is How It Has Always Been Done_

To be truthful, I was frightened.

I wished, certainly not for the first time, that I had received some practical instruction in what was to follow. All of my mother's concern for the visits from Général Krottendorf as a sign of my readiness for marriage had given me no information. Just as unhelpful was Madame Lulu's explanation of "the act": _two beloved bodies become one. _I told myself that my husband would surely have received more specific instructions. But from the little I had observed of him since we'd met, just one day earlier, I wasn't the least bit confident.

I wished my sister Carolina were here. She's comfort me. Or even Amalia. She'd have practical advice. Not Mimi, though—Mimi, who married the man she loved and climbed into bed every night with him. He was probably a wonderful lover. Mimi, who had everything.

Now here I was, caught again in a web of etiquette. A long procession of high-ranking gentlemen and ladies, led by the archbishop of Rheims and his attendants, seemed to be required to convey us for the _coucher_—the bedding. A flock of ladies with their huge panniers crowded into my dressing room and began to unlace and unfasten and remove the several layers of my wedding finery. Someone plucked the jewels and feathers out of my coiffure and let my hair tumble down over my shoulders. Someone wiped off my ghastly makeup. Finally, they dressed me in a delicately embroidered sleeping shift and led me to the bridal chamber, where my husband and I were expected to get into bed together in front of the horde of people jostling for position.

"They are here because they have the right of entry, depending upon their rank and position," murmured the comtesse de Noailles. "This is how it has always been done."

The archbishop blessed the huge bed, sprinkling holy water every which way, and my husband and I climbed into it from opposite sides while the old king watched is, grinning and gleefully rubbing his hands. A coverlet was pulled over us, all those present bowed or curtsied and finally left, and a pair of attendants drew the curtain around the great bed.

_Now, _I thought, _it's going to happen. Two bodies will become one. _I wondered if it was better to shout my eyes or keep them open.

Suddenly the curtains flew apart, and there stood the king, for one last look. The curtains were drawn for a second time. The great door closed with a thump, and everything grew quiet. I held my breath, waiting.

But nothing happened. Nothing at all. _"Bonne nuit, madame," _said Louis-Auguste. "Good night."

He rolled over on his side, away from me, and within minutes he was snoring lightly. I lay staring into the darkness until I too fell asleep.

When I awoke the next morning, the bed was empty. My husband was gone.

"Hunting," the footman reported soberly. I believe that behind his expressionless face the servant was laughing.


	17. Rule Number 17

_Rule Number 17: You May Not Reach For Anything Yourself_

For nine days and nine nights, ballets and operas were performed, balls and feasts were held, and gambling went on at all hours, all to celebrate the wedding. I was at the center of it, dressed in one gorgeous gown after another, coiffed and made up and decorated with jewels like a real-life _poupée du mode._

But every night ended in the same puzzling way: After the ritual undressing, my husband and I climbed into the marriage bed, and our attendants closed the curtains around us and left the chamber. Then, just as he had each night since our wedding, Louis-Auguste said, _"Bonne nuit, madame," _rolled over, and fell asleep. Every morning I woke up alone.

On the last night of the celebration, a brilliant display of fireworks danced across the sky. Then, as we watched from the windows of the Galerie des Glaces, the grand canal, extending westward to the horizon, was gradually illuminated, until the canal became a river of light stretching as far as the eye could see. That thrilling display marked the end of the wedding festivities.

Again that night nothing happened, and my husband left to go hunting before I woke up in the morning. It was the last night he came to sleep in my bed. From then on he ignored me, in public as well as in private. I had no idea what was going on, I had no one to ask, and so I simply smiled and pretended everything was fine. With all the rules I was expected to learn and to follow precisely, I had plenty to worry about. But Louis-Auguste's behavior toward me worried me more than anything.

The earliest hours of the day weren't too difficult. I put on a dressing gown, said my morning prayers, and ate a little breakfast—a bowl of broth and a small roll. But after that, I had no more privacy for the rest of the day. The _lever, _the first official ceremony of the day, brought an audience of strangers crowding into my apartments to watch me at my toilette.

King Louis had appointed a dozen highborn ladies to be my companions, and sixteen more ladies of lesser birth to serve as women of the bedchamber. Most were old. Over them all loomed the mistress of the household, the comtesse de Noailles. How I wished there were someone close to my age to by my friend! But there was not.

By eleven o'clock, when Monsieur Larsenneur, the friseur, arrived to arrange my coiffure, the ladies had gathered in my boudoir. The friseur pomaded my hair, curled it with hot irons, and piled the curls on wire frames and cotton wool. While two ladies held a mask over my face, the friseur used a bellows to blow white powder over his creation. Two more ladies whisked away the peignoir I'd been wearing to protect my dress gown. At this moment the doors to my boudoir opened, and any ladies—gentlemen too—whose ranks entitled them to right of entry squeezed in to watch the next unavoidable part of the ritual; rouging my cheeks. The first lady of the bedchamber stepped forward with a pot of rouge and proceeded with her task.

When my sisters and I were growing up, Mama did not permit us to wear rouge, but reddened cheeks were required of aristocratic ladies in the French court. (Women who weren't members of the court were forbidden to use rouge.) I thought it looked ridiculous, but I too had to submit to having the hideous red circles painted on my face. That done, the gentlemen withdrew, the doors were closed, and the most irksome ritual began: getting dressed. It was unbelievably complicated. The comtesse de Noailles laid out the rules.

"You may not reach for anything yourself. Each item must be presented to you by the person designated for that duty."

Should I get thirsty, I couldn't just help myself to a glass of water. If the lady in charge of pouring my water didn't happen to be present at that parched moment, I would have to stay thirst until she arrived. Then the servant of the chamber would hand a silver-gilt salver with a covered goblet and a decanter to the lady of the proper rank, who would place the salver on a side table and pour the water into the goblet. At that point I might be allowed to drink—if I hadn't already fainted from thirst.

I was required to change my gown at least three times in the course of a single day. The gown I was supposed to wear on any particular occasion and all that was to go with it were selected by the mistress of the robes and carried to my boudoir in baskets covered with green taffeta. ("Why green?" I wondered aloud. "Because it has always been green," I was told. "That's the Bourbon color.") The first lady of the bedchamber laid out the gown. The second lady of the bedchamber removed my dressing gown. The mistress of the household—that w as the comtesse de Noailles—poured water into a basin for me to wash my hands and handed me a small towel from a special basket to dry them. My underthings had been brought in by the wardrobe woman in charge of my linens. Now the countess was ready to present me with my chemise.

Sometimes this tiresome procedure went fairly smoothly, but often it didn't. One morning, having had my dressing gown removed, I stood completely naked, waiting. The comtesse de Noailles had stripped off her glove when a scratching at the door—for some reason the ladies did not knock or even tap but _scratched_—signaled the arrival of another privileged lady. As it happened, the new arrival was a princess of blood and ranked higher than the countess, therefore _she _had the right to hand me my underthings. No sooner had the princess removed _her_ glove and picked up my chemise than we heard another scratching, and yet another princess entered, one who ranked even higher than the first princess. The first princess now had to yield the privilege—and the chemise on its silver salver—to the second princess.

I wanted to scream! There I stood, naked and shivering, my arms crossed over my chest, praying that no one else would arrive and throw everything out of order again. What could be the point of all this? When I was a child, I'd always had help dressing, but I surely didn't need that kind of help now. I understood that these great ladies weren't interested in serving me but in proving who was more important in the court and more deserving of the privilege. If it hadn't been so maddening, it might have been amusing.

_Someday I'll have to write to Caroline about this, _I thought. _She won't believe it. She'll think I'm making it up._

After I had been tightly laced into my stays and arrayed in my _robe á la française _and the chosen jewels, my toilette was complete. At one o'clock, my husband and his gentlemen emerged from his apartments, where I assumed he had endured a similar ritual after a morning of hunting, and we all proceeded to the royal chapel to hear Mass. From there our procession moved to the anteroom outside the royal apartments for the _grand couvert_—the "great table." The midday meal was always eaten in public, and anyone who was properly dressed—ceremonial swords required for gentlemen—was allowed to stand nearby and watch us eat. Course followed course of vast amounts of food were presented: at least two soups; roast veal and either mutton or beef; roast chickens and partridges and hare; and a number of smaller dishes. Four ladies assisted the comtesse de Noailles, who knelt in front of me to serve me each bite of food, each sip of water. With hordes of people gaping, I was supposed to eat my main meal of the day. I promptly lost all desire for food.

Having an audience didn't dampen Louis-Auguste's appetite the least bit. It wasn't unusual for him to consume several cutlets, a whole chicken, a plateful of veal, and half a dozen boiled eggs, washing all of it down with a bottle or two of champagne. And that was before he attacked the sweetmeats arranged on a towering _épegne, _each silver arm laden with pastries and preserved fruit. The dauphin ate as though eating were his solemn duty, and he gave it his entire attention. There was no conversation. My husband was in love with his food.


	18. Rule Number 18

_Rule Number 18: Show Your Subjects the Proper Recognition_

I hadn't expected my life at Versailles to be so wearisome. Surrounded by much older ladies and expected to learn so many dreadfully dull little ceremonies, I felt trapped.

The comtesse de Noailles nipped at my heels in a most annoying way, tirelessly correcting everything I did, down to the smallest gesture. For instance, I must not incline my head too much when greeting someone who was not of a rank deserving such recognition. And I must _seem _to be about to rise but _not actually rise _when a princess of the blood entered the chamber. The absurd rules went on and on and on. But without the countess hovering at my elbow to coach me, I would no doubt have committed countless crimes of etiquette, bring gasps of disapproval. Behind her back I called her Madame Etiquette. I grew sick of the very sight of her.

Three times each day I had to visit Mesdames Tantes, my husband's three fusty old aunts. These visits were required because the aunts were the king's daughters, officially known as the Children of France, though they were certainly no longer children. The eldest, Madame Adélaïde, was clearly in charge of her sisters. She liked to talk about her gowns and jewels and to boast about her beauty as a young girl—she was now anything but beautiful—and she pointedly told me she had refused many offers of marriage in her day because none of her suitors were worthy of an Enfant de France. Madame Victoire, a placid woman, had pretty features buried beneath layers of fat. The youngest, Madame Sophie, was horridly ugly, nervous, and high-strung. All three aunts wore billowing black gowns that hid their shapeless bodies. Their father called _les mesdames _by childish nicknames I would have found humiliating: Adélaïde was known as Rag, Victoire was called Piggy, and Sophie was Grub. Peculiar as these ladies were, they always greeted me warmly and treated me in a motherly fashion, often correcting me, but in a kindly way. The aunts truly seemed to care about me—no one else did—and I became fond of them.

"Ah, my dear Madame Antoinette!" Madame Adélaïde called out each time I entered their apartments. "How delightful to see you!" As though I hadn't visited them two hours earlier.

One day, not long after my arrival at Versailles, I settled into what had become my usual chair, and the aunts picked up the well-worn threads of their conversation—gossip, as usual.

"She sat on the arm of his chair again, the strumpet!" Madame Sophie announced shrilly. His sisters nodded vigorously.

I didn't need to ask who "she" was. The ladies were discussing the comtesse Du Barry, the king's mistress. "His chair" was, of course, the chair belonging to their father, King Louis. On each visit to Mesdames Tantes I learned a little more about the strumpet. I was expected to show stern disapproval of Madame Du Barry and whatever she said, did, or wore.

The scandalous story of the king's favorite began when she was born, the illegitimate daughter of a seamstress. "Her father was a monk!" shrieked Madame Victoire, pale with shock at the thought. Her name then was Jeanne Bécu, and though she worked for a time as a shop girl, she soon found that she could earn more money in a brothel. One of her customers was a man named Du Barry.

There Madame Adélaïde took up the story. "That evil man introduced her to our father, who was not yet recovered from the death of his previous mistress Madame Pompadour."

"Pompadour was indecent, but not half so indecent as Bécu," declared Madame Victoire.

"Father has an uncontrollable weakness," sighed Madame Adélaïde. "We pray for him daily."

"Several times daily," amended Madame Sophie, rolling her eyes upward toward heaven.

"The evil man married off Bécu to his brother, who was a count, and suddenly the harlot had a title! She had become the comtesse Du Barry!"

"At first our father installed her in a house in Compiégne, where she stayed hidden all day. At midnight a sedan chair arrived with two liveried servants to escort her to the palace. At daybreak she left Father's apartments and returned to her house."

All three of the aunts pulled out handkerchiefs and began to weep. "At least she didn't embarrass us. But then our foolish father had his new mistress presented at court!"

"In she walked, flaunting jewels worth a hundred thousand _livres_!"

"Diamonds by the score on the heels of her shoes!"

"It was the scandal of the century!"

"Our father, the king, has given her a lovely little chateau, Louveciennes. There is nothing he wouldn't do for her. And you can see for yourself how vulgarly she behaves and how loudly she speaks!"

"She's barely out of the gutter." Madame Sophie sobbed. "And she should certainly go back there."

I agreed the situation was scandalous. The comtesse Du Barry created a sensation as she paraded through the halls of the chateau trailed by her Bengali page dressed in pink velvet with a turban on his head, turned-up toes on his shoes, and a little jeweled sword fastened to his belt. Wherever the king was, there was Du Barry, the two of them riding through the park in the king's carriage, with the curtains drawn, or gliding along the grand canal on warm summer evenings in a magnificent gondola while musicians played and the rays of the setting sun gilded the calm waters.

"It's hard to ignore her presence," I told the aunts.

"You could refuse to recognize her, Madame Antoinette." Madame Adélaïde suggested with a conspiratorial look. "Simply pretend not to see her, as though she didn't exist! That would put her in her place! Not so difficult, is it, my dear child?"

True—it would not be difficult at all.

The aunts smiled at me approvingly and patted my hand. They called for pastries to be brought, which they consumed with great relish, and I returned to my apartments until it was time for the next visit.


	19. Rule Number 19

_Rule Number 19: You Cannot Change the Rules of Etiquette_

Two events occurred that please me very much. One was the return of my adored and adoring Mops. Off all the things that had been stripped away from me when I left Austria, the loss of my little dog had been most upsetting. "You may have as many French dogs as you wish," the comtesse de Noailles had assured me, but it was Mops I longed for.

Now, through the gracious efforts of Count Mercy d'Argenteau, the Astrian ambassador, my little pug arrived in the arms of my former tutor Abbé de Vermond. Although I had several priests in my service, at my request Vermond had been appointed my confessor. I felt a little less lonely now, knowing that neither dog nor priest would repeat the most private thoughts and secrets I confided to them.

I usually worked on my embroidery while I waited for the _abbé _to arrive for his regular afternoon visit. I had begun making a vest for the king, but progress was slow. One day, when we'd finished praying together and I had resumed my embroidery, I suddenly burst out "Why I am subjected to these tedious rules of etiquette? They make no sense to me. We certainly didn't have all these ridiculous habits in Austria." And there I was, breaking one of Mama's rules: _Do not talk about how things are done in Austria._

"Austria is not France, Madame Antoinette," the priest reminded me gently. "It all goes back to King Louis the fourteenth, great-grandfather of our King Louis the Fifteenth, great-great-great grandfather of your dear husband, the dauphin."

"The Sun King," I said, remembering the history the _abbé _had managed to stuff into my head. "Ruled France for seventy two years, if I'm not mistaken." I absently picked out a few wayward stitches from the king's vest.

"Indeed. Louis the Fourteenth invented all of these rules of etiquette that you find so annoying simply in order to control the noblemen of his court. The King Louis of a hundred years ago wanted to be worshiped, and worshiping him kept an army of people fully occupied. The custom of courtiers wearing with _talons rouges_—red heels—was an easy way for him to tell at a glance which men belonged at court and which did not. When he died in 1715, our own dear Louis was next in line, at the age of five. There was no one else alive to do it."

"Then I wish he'd get rid of the silly rules," I said.

"But he will not, and believe me, Madame la Dauphine, there's nothing _you _can do to change them. I understand that you dislike having the whole world watching everything you do." He pulled his bottom lip thoughtfully. "The comtesse de Noailles tells me you insist upon getting into your bath while wearing your shift."

"Because I can't bear having all those people stare at me!" I cried.

"And that you refuse to give up your habit of bathing several times a week."

"That's what we did at home!"

"But this is your home now, madame. You must not forget that."

I threw aside my needlework and began to cry. "I have not forgotten, Abbé!" I sobbed. I could not stop.

"Is something else bothering you, daughter?" the priest asked.

"The truth burst out of me, unrestrained. "_Oui, c'est vrai! _It's true! My husband has not yet made me his real wife; people are talking about it, and I don't know what to do!"

The priest sighed and tugged again at his lip. "I've heard that rumor. Naturally, your mother is much concerned. So is King Louis. Everyone has a different idea. It has been suggested by the ambassador that your husband may be suffering from some, uh, physical problem. The king, on the other hand, thinks it's just a matter of shyness and that the dauphin will get over it in his own time."

"And my mother blames me!" I said unhappily. "She lectures me in every letter, telling me I'm not doing enough."

The hour ended disappointingly, with nothing concluded. Did I really expect my priest to tell me what to do? Now I had to prepare for my music lesson. It was the day for either the harp teacher or the singing teacher to come to my apartments—I couldn't remember which.

When the weather was fair I was allowed to go for a walk after the lesson, accompanied by some of my ladies. In the evenings—after a third required visit to the aunts—I was expected to preside over card games. _Jeu de cavagnole _was as dull a game as I had ever encountered, but many of the courtiers seemed to enjoy it and won and lost a good many of _livres. _By the time we ate supper—the _petit couvert_—at nine or ten o'clock, I was staring. This was not a public dinner, and finally I could relax a bit. Sometimes King Louis joined us, though mostly he preferred to have an intimate supper with his favorite, Madame Du Barry.

The whole day was exhausting, and I could hardly wait until the ceremony of the _coucher _was over and I was undressed; then I'd fall into bed and wonder if this night would be different and my husband would come to me at last.

But each night was the same as the one before.


	20. Rule Number 20

_Rule Number 20: Your Sole Task is to Please Your Husband_

I was still not a real dauphine, and everyone seemed to know it. Chambermaids inspected the bed linens each morning to see if the dauphin had finally performed his marital duty. Certain members of the court were willing to pay handsomely for such a piece of information. Hundreds of minor aristocrats milled around Versailles with not much to occupy them but spying and gossiping. I was embarrassed to be the subject of such speculation, but all I could do was pretend to ignore it and smile, smile, smile.

Once my sisters and I were married, my mother had instructed us to report to her each visit of Général Krottendorf, as well as all marital activity, to assure her we were fulfilling our duty. She arranged for a secret courtier to carry my letter to her at the beginning of each month, ensuring that anything I told her would not fall into the hands of spies. Mama was not pleased to learn that all was not going according to her plan.

I didn't feel that Louis-Auguste disliked me or found me objectionable in any way. He was not like my brother Joseph, who couldn't bring himself to make love to his second, the Bavarian princess cursed with a dark mustache and lots of pimples. I believed that Louis-Auguste was frightened—not of _me, _but of what was expected of him. I felt sorry for him. He really didn't know how to behave. I made up my mind to be his friend and to win him over, little by little. But how could I be his friend if he wouldn't speak to me, or even look at me? All I could do was wait.

One night a few weeks after the wedding, Louis-Auguste appeared in my bedchamber. "My grandfather has ordered me to visit your bed," he explained and crept timidly under the coverlet.

Almost immediately he rolled over and was about to fall asleep when I reached out, very carefully, and rested my hand on his shoulder. Through the thin cloth of his nightshirt I felt him grow tense, as though he actually believed I might do him harm. I thought of my little Mops, who'd been frightened and nervous at first until I'd scratched his back. After that, my dog had quickly come to adore me. I decided to try the same technique on the dauphin.

Starting near his neck, I began to scratch my husband's back, lightly at first until his shoulders slowly relaxed. I scratched a little harder, my fingers working carefully down his spine. "Ahhhh," he sighed.

And then he fell asleep.

He was back again the next night. "Scratch my back, _s'il vous plait, madame_," he said, rolling on his side. I began scratching. When I was making circles and figure eights somewhere below his shoulders, he murmured, "I enjoy what you're doing almost as much as I enjoy making locks."

"Making _locks_?" I was glad to learn that he enjoyed something besides eating and hunting. I switched hands and continued scratching.

"_Oui, madame, _making locks," he said. "Every evening I'm at my forge. I'm a good locksmith. Someday I'll make a lock for you. Now, if you would be so kind, madame, a little to the left."

In the minutes he was snoring softly. Before I awoke the next morning, he was gone.

**-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

Nearly three months had passed since my wedding. Though my husband still mostly ignored me in public, and we exchanged only a few words at the _grand couvert_—whatever he said then almost always had to do with the food—we were slowly becoming friends. I believed he was beginning to trust me.

But this was not what my mother wanted to hear—that he liked tot have his back scratched and that he preferred making locks to making lover.

How painful it was to confess in my letters that nothing had changed between us: I had not been made a real dauphine. I was no longer living in the shabby apartments that had once belonged to my husband's dead mother but had been moved to new and very pretty quarters that, unfortunately, were far from my husband's apartments. If he wanted to visit me to have his back scratched, he had to make his way there with everyone watching. Anyone who happened to be present knew exactly where he was going. This was too much for poor, shy Louis-Auguste.

Mama was outraged.

_Surely, Antoinette, you are at fault here. Why are you not sharing the same bed as we do here?_

_ Dearest Mama, _I wrote, _the French sleep not only in separate beds but in separate apartments. It is the custom here._

_ That custom of separate beds is most peculiar. You must do whatever is necessary to change it, _she replied.

Mama's advice on the subject was confusing was confusing, because all along she had preached that I must be obedient and follow the rules of court etiquette without question, take care to do everything exactly as it was done at Versailles, and never behave in a manner to shock or upset anyone.

Now her letters were filled with harsh criticism and blame. _Everything depends on the wife, _she wrote sternly. _She must be willing, sweet, and amusing. It is up to you to cajole him endlessly. Redouble your caresses! Your sole task is to please your husband. Don't forget that!_

I wanted to scream, _I am willing, I am sweet, and I try my best to be amusing. I caress and cajole as much as he will allow, but still my husband does not want to make love to me!_

I must confess that I was not overcome with passion for my husband. He certainly wasn't handsome, as I'd dreamed he would be, but neither was he ugly or disgusting—just fat and clumsy. And he wasn't rude or unpleasant—just awkward and reticent. I understood well my duty to produce the future kings and queens of France. My reputation at court depended on my success—indeed, my whole future depended on it. But I couldn't do it without Louis-Auguste's cooperation. Back scratching had made him my friend, but it hadn't made him my lover. I had no idea what would.

I decided that at the first opportunity I would speak openly to him about this serious matter. Then one day in early August, after the dauphin had plowed through his usual mountainous meal at the _grand couvert, _he turned to me and said, "_S'il vous plait, madame, _visit me this afternoon, when it is convenient for you to do so."

I was surprised and delighted—he had never before invited me to come to his apartments. _At last, _I thought, _this is my chance._

Once the required visit to the aunts was finished, I hurried to the dauphin's apartments. As usual, the dic de La Vauguyon, my husband's longtime tutor, was hovering nearby. I absolutely detested this man. As governor of the Children of France, La Vauguyon had made it clear all along to Louis-Auguste and his brothers that they must not trust anyone of Austrian blood. I was sure La Vauguyon had been a bad influence and might even have poisoned the dauphin's mind against me. I swept past the duke without acknowledging him and was ushered into my husband's library.

Louis-Auguste peered at me through pair of jeweled spactacles that I had never before seen him use. The dauphin was very shortsighted, but etiquette forbade him to wear spectacles in public. "I'm glad you're here, madame," he said, blushing, and invited me to sit on a pretty chair elaborately carved and covered in embroidered silk. "I had this chair made just for your visits." That pleased me.

He dismissed his roomful of attendants—he had even more of them than I did—and finally we were alone. I waited to find out what he wanted to discuss. Maybe he was thinking of the same thing I was. How much simpler that would make my task!

He struggled to begin, unable to look at me directly, and put away his spectacles. Maybe it would be easier if he couldn't see me clearly. Trying to make him feel more at ease, I reached for his hand. It was cold and damp. "Dear husband, _je vous en prie_—I beg you—feel free to speak your mind openly and with confidence that I will understand."

"What I've been wanting to say to you is that—" He paused, coughed, dropped my hand as if it were something hot, and began again. Finally he blurted it out: "It would mean a lot to me if you…that is to say…I…I want very much for you to join my hunting party!"

It must have cost him a great deal to choke out these words, which he could not have been more different from what I was thinking. I wanted to laugh, but somehow I managed to reply in the same serious tone, "Monsieur, I've never hunted. I've never ridden a horse."

"But you could learn, I'm sure," he said earnestly. "Hunting is what I love best. I go hunting nearly every day, first thing in the morning."

"Then I shall learn," I promised. "But my dear monsieur, I think we have more to discuss than hunting. May I speak frankly?"

He got that frightened-rabbit expression, but he did give me one quick nod before he looked away and began to study his thumbs. He may have suspected what I was going to say.

I reminded him gently that it was our solemn duty as the future king and queen of France to produce children. With my sweetest smile I asked, "Is there something I can do to help make that possible?" I was sure Mama would call that _cajoling._

The dauphin blushed and stammered and rubbed his eyes until they were pink. At last he admitted in a strangled voice that he knew very well of what I spoke but that he suffered greatly from shyness. Then he seemed to collect himself and said with some determination, "I have come to an important decision, Antoinette." This was the first time he had called me by my given name, and I took it as a good sign. "On the twenty-third of august—just two weeks from today—I'll observe my sixteenth birthday at Compiégne. That's my favorite palace—the hunting in the forest there is fantastic! At that time I promise you I shall begin to live with you in the kind of intimacy our union requires."

I was thrilled! This formal speech was, for Louis-Auguste, a great show of courage. For half a minute I believed he was actually going to kiss me—he still had not done even _that, _except for the ceremonial kiss on both cheeks at our first meeting. And maybe he would have, if we hadn't both heard an odd noise at the door of his library. In two swift strides he crossed the room and flung open the door. There, trapped behind the door, was the duc de La Vauguyon. He'd obviously been listening to every word.

"What is it you want, sir?" the dauphin demanded.

This was the first time I had seen my husband angry, but La Vauguyon didn't even seem disconcerted. "The king, your grandfather, has asked me to review several documents with you, Monsieur le Dauphin," said the duke, glancing at me through slitted eyes.

Louis-Auguste looked at me and shrugged. I rose and swept haughtily out of his apartments. I hated having our important conversation end that way, and I wondered how much the detestable La Vauguyon had managed to hear at the keyhole and would find a way to use to his advantage. But at least I had my husband's promise to make me a real dauphine on his birthday, in two weeks. And I had promised him I'd learn to hunt.

**-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-**

My confidence grew that my husband was ready to love me fully. I wrote at once to my mother with the good news, and I even confided excitedly in Mesdames Tantes. They'd fallen into the habit of asking me every morning if Louis-Auguste had visited my bed the night before, and I'd always admit that he had not. Even direct orders from his grandfather had had no effect. I was sure the aunts would be delighted to hear that their dear nephew was about to get over his timidity and prove his manhood.

"I've told him quite sternly that he must be about it," Madame Adélaïde declared triumphantly. "At last he's listening to me."

Next I went to King Louis, first making sure that the vulgar Madame Du Barry was not present. The king, as always, seemed pleased to see me.

"Dear Grandpapa King," I said, "I find my cherished husband becoming more and more lovable each day, and my greatest wish is to please him in every way possible." I knew the king would understand that little hint. "Therefore, I ask your kind permission to allow me to learn to ride so that I may accompany him on the royal hunts."

The king gazed at me. "Not everyone approves of young ladies riding horses," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It is said to be ruinous to the complexion and injurious to the figure, perhaps even dangerous to women under thirty."

"I will take every care, dear Grandpa King. But I know it would please my husband greatly. He has told me so."

The king seemed to think it over. _"Eh bien, ma chére Antoinette," _he replied at last. "I compliment you for your desire to please your husband. I shall have the equerries fund some donkeys of a sweet and tranquil nature for you to ride."

"_Donkeys, _Grandpa?"

"Much safer for you, _ma chére, _and surely as enjoyable."

It wasn't quite what I wanted, but I thanked him and kissed his hands and fairly skipped out of his chambers. Everything was at last going my way.

Louis-Auguste's sixteenth birthday arrived, and I prepared for his visit to my bed at Compiégne. I wasn't even frightened anymore. In fact, I looked forward to this new adventure. But he spent the whole day out hunting, and when he returned very late, muddy and completely exhausted, I wondered if he would do what he had promised.

Alas, he did not.


End file.
